Mass Effect: Newton's Third Law
by Raven Studios
Summary: The Reapers have arrived. The war has begun, and already the galaxy crumbles. Reunited with old friends, aided by new allies, Shepard finally finds herself face-to-face the enemies she's dreaded for years...while keeping Cerberus at bay with one hand. (Cover images all belong to Bioware. As with Mass Effect itself, I'm just borrowing them and giving credit where it's due.)
1. Introduction

Opening Author's Notes

Here we are again!

You probably remember the premise of these vignettes by now, but I'll mention it in brief. These are 1000-word snapshots of the events of Mass Effect 3. Now, I know that the ME3 ending is very controversial, and whether you loved, hated, or felt indifferent about it, let me humbly suggest that you enjoy the story for where it is in the grand scheme of things and worry about the end a little closer to the end. It's quite a ways off, so why worry about it before we have to? Just my humble suggestion.

For those of you who are new, I recommend going back to read 'Newton's First' and 'Newton's Second.' If you didn't read them, 'First Thermodynamics' and 'Second Thermodynamics' do quite a bit of set-up. 'Cause and Effect' (this Shepard's origin story) will help clarify a few minor characters who will likely crop up, but it isn't strictly necessary since most of them appear in one or two of the aforementioned recommended readings.

Also, over the course of 2012-2016, I asked for your feedback with regards to title prompts, because my box had narrowed to the point of tunnel vision. What I didn't tell you was that they were for Newton's Third. Ladies and gentlemen, we are here because you helped get us here. I would like to thank the following contributors for their support:

Awaylaughing, BrownBear, CyanB, Darth Garak, Draggu, Faretta, Janizary, Justbehappydammit, Justsomebody2, Katkat42, Plotbunnyprey, Pyrotorch246, Quantum Paradigm, Ray Venn Hakubi, and Torroar.

Thank you all, because I wasn't sure I had the words or the strength for Newton's Third in me. I'm still not… but your support has been a major contributing factor to this installment's existence. So thank you all again.

Special thanks to the Mass Effect Wiki, the Prima guide that holds all my sticky notes of notes, and to Bioware, who owns Mass Effect—this disclaimer applies to any and all chapters of this work.

This story picks up directly after the last chapter of Second Thermodynamics.

Happy reading,

~Raven Studios

-J-

Newton's Third Law states: _For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction_.

-J-

It was not the way Shepard expected to be 'taken into custody'. In fact, it was much more like a family reunion…though she used the term 'family' in an exceptionally loose sense.

Even after 'wall to wall therapy' with Garrus, even with the bruises still livid, she wished the Alliance had just popped a black bag over her head, snatched her up, and carted her off. She did not—though it was no relief—feel the sickening sensations Sidonis described, but she certainly felt sick.

The number 304,942—the number of the dead at Aratoht—seemed burned onto the backs of her eyelids. She found herself endlessly justifying her actions, and endlessly wondering if maybe she'd missed something, some action that would have made a difference. The cold logic that had, for most of her life, defined her was wholly unsympathetic to conscience: there was nothing she could have done except _not_ get knocked out by Object Rho in the first place.

And Object Rho was Reaper-tech.

Which made her stomach go cold again with fear. _Could_ the thing have indoctrinated her? Dr. Chakwas certainly couldn't confirm or deny this…Chambers said she was all right, but still…

She shook herself, glad to be by herself…mostly.

She hadn't been surprised that Anderson was the one sent to bring her in; it was reassuring but unsurprising. She wasn't sure what to think of 'the babysitter' Anderson had tapped for duty, but it was clear Anderson wanted her to think _something_ about him.

Given what she knew about Anderson, the tank of a man was for the reassurance of everyone else, to give the illusion that she, Shepard, was under control, collared and chipped by the Alliance.

Because the whole galaxy and their _dog_ knew about Aratoht by the time Hackett's delegation came to pick her up. She blamed this on Harbinger, and it elicited one of the few embers that burned through her guilt, though in a way she preferred that _something_ happen. Or maybe that was still shock.

She shook her head to clear it. It was the only way solid information could have gotten through the comm blackout and out of the system. The Reaper had gotten in the last blow and was probably smirking over it even now. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

The real insult to pride was that she hadn't smelled the Reaper trap—she gave them credit for the whole setup—when she walked into it. The Collectors might—and she could only theorize—have been the Reapers' main pipeline of information prior to the destruction of their base, but clearly the Reapers had ways of keeping tabs on the galaxy.

Hoping to have them in a comm blackout themselves was optimistic in an extreme she didn't even want to have passing thoughts about.

She had the nasty feeling that the time for stalling the Reapers had lapsed: there would be no more holding actions, no more delaying tactics. They would just drop into a system, or a dozen systems all at once, and the party would be over.

Or just starting, depending on who you were. The thing that made the Reaper arrival truly horrifying, to her, was the number of people who would be caught flat-footed. Those wiped out in the initial attack would probably never know what hit them; in a way, they'd be the lucky ones.

She'd certainly done a bang-up job in averting some of those damages. She didn't expect anyone to go into full-scale war preparations and cause mass panics, but such things could—and had in various histories—been done on a smaller scale. The galaxy had since '83 to start discreetly preparing.

As for 'proofs' of the danger…the proof was in the inconsistencies, the repeated deviations from 'normalcy' without explanation or reason. She clipped this thought: it inevitably made her feel nauseous. She now understood what 'watching a train wreck' _meant_. She could see the cause, see the effect, see what was happening…but couldn't do a damn thing about it.

A cold feeling ran through her as a new thought—or maybe an old one, shuffled to the bottom of the deck of 'scary thoughts' finally returning to fill out a hand of cards—would the Council be stupid enough to think they could reason or negotiate with the Reapers? The idea made her feel even sicker than before. Once they appreciated what kind of enemy she'd been trying to prepare them for…they just might. Once their homeworlds came under attack, they just might.

She couldn't say why, but she found herself thinking that the asari councilor would be most likely to want to negotiate a ceasefire while the turian councilor would be most likely to resist such a movement…until the losses his people suffered screamed for remedy.

Yet again she shook herself, returning to finding pinpricks of light in her current mindset: Hackett _must_ believe _something_. Anderson _certainly_ did, though what he could do was unclear (assassinating his fellow Councilors if they went anywhere near a Reaper was apparently out of the question). Still, what anyone could do with such a small pool of informed persons was questionable.

Tides might turn due to valorous acts or necessity under pressure, but one was not generally fighting enemies two-kilometers in length with superior weapons and shields. Traditional holding actions wouldn't work so well, as far as she could tell.

But it was something. She was clutching at straws and she knew it.

If ever there was a time for a stiff drink, now would be the time. Curse her bad genetics…and then she wondered if that kink in the genes might not have been fixed or altered by her 'resuscitation.'

Best not to find out.

Shepard got to her feet, prowled restlessly. She hated these alternating fits of lethargy and nervous energy.

She wished they were in dock and that she had a bathtub. A soak would be nice; it was always better to mull things over in hot water.


	2. Quidam

It wasn't any place like Jack was used to. She remembered a tiny, dingy room; faceless tormentors and drugs flooding her veins; the smells of blood, pain, and fear; enough food to keep her functioning but it was never very good; and a two-way mirror she hadn't known was a two-way mirror…

And corpses. Far, far too many corpses; she'd made some, more had been carted out without even the courtesy of a toe-tag.

Grissom was, as promised, different.

In looks, different _in looks_ , she reminded herself.

It was all bright and specious, airy even, orbiting close to a heavily populated world. It had big windows, and kids slept two to a room. They were comfortable rooms, too, nice and wide to accommodate two people without cramming them together: dressers, desks for homework with consoles and Extranet connections, comfy twin beds with real pillows, and one could put posters or hang mirrors or lights or pretty much anything that could be hung on the walls. And an actual privacy partition that slid far enough to allow one student to sleep without the lights of a wakeful roommate keeping them up.

There were regular classes—reading and writing, school-type stuff—on top of biotics training for the biotics present. There were after-class activities, too—fun stuff to fill in the hours, like sports or hobbies. The braniacs—because there were crazy-smart people on the station—had competitions for themselves, though anyone could enter if they wanted.

There were a couple of the braniacs who didn't seem… all there… exactly the kind Cerberus would love to get their claws into. The place was a treasure trove of the kinds of things those freaks wanted.

But the kids smiled. They laughed. They annoyed one another.

But they _smiled_. They weren't scared. They weren't made to fight, not in earnest anyway.

And the _food_! As someone who knew what it was to be really, truly hungry, the dietary provision was astounding. Meals were regularly offered, and the biotics never stilted. Some of the non-biotic kids—she'd heard them do it!—teased their biotic companions only to have quick but laughing retorts launched back at them.

That was what really caught her attention, beyond the fact that the kids were obviously well cared for: they _smiled_ ; they _laughed_ ; they had no idea what it was to be truly afraid of where they were.

Oh, new arrivals were nervous and a couple actually anxious, but that wore off quickly.

Jack felt alien among them, was too aware of the sidelong looks she kept getting. She didn't know what kind of arrangements had been made for her to be here, to stay here, but the program manager had talked over the specifics as they pertained to Jack.

Jack, going over her personal experiences, couldn't help but think maybe it was better to have a woman in charge. Women could be moms; they'd probably bring that mindset with them when dealing with kids.

There was a head-doctor—she _knew_ the woman was a head-doctor, even if it never really came up—who asked uncomfortable questions but wasn't shocked when Jack felt goaded into snarling the more uncomfortable chapters of her life. The doctor was particularly interested in Cerberus, as if she thought Jack might be able to… Jack wasn't entirely certain. Like her information could lead to a swift drop-kick and a couple bullets to the head.

Seeing the kids here, it made her uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and grumpy. It started as 'this could have been me' but even while trying to process the bitterness, she couldn't help thinking that these kids could have been her.

It made her uncomfortable to see kids the same age she was when she fell into Cerberus' hands bright and eager. It was weird not to hear screams in the night.

Although that one time someone put a rubber snake in one of the girls' dressers—Rodriguez, she thought the girl was, and Prangley who planted the snake. Rodriguez had bolted out of the room she shared with another girl, screaming at the top of her lungs. The shock and fear had melted quickly, to the point that she'd charged into the common room and accused Prangley, flaring the whole time, and threatening to strangle him with the snake.

Prangley's defense was unconvincing and he ended up bolting with the still snarling Rodriguez chasing after him while everyone else laughed and watched, hooting and catcalling until one of the instructors sailed in to help diffuse the situation.

Jack had watched from the corridor down which Rodriguez had charged (almost running Jack over in the process). It was weird to see an altercation where people laughed not cruelly, but with genuine amusement, where the antagonists both ended up with kitchen patrol, a sentence submitted to with sulky rejection (and a thrown snake as soon as the instructors looked away, which hit Prangley in the back of the head).

They were in a place to train their biotics—those that were biotics—but weren't _driven_ to it.

Some of them could use a little driving, Jack thought grimly as she watched from one of the observation galleries. If Rodriguez (she was pretty sure the girl was called Rodriguez) put half the energy she ended up expending on Prangley (usually antagonistically, but Jack thought there was something between those two under the antagonism) into her barriers, she'd be solid as a durasteel bunker.

Unfortunately, Rodriguez didn't seem to trust her biotics to keep her safe; girl could put a decent barrage together, though. She was no freak like Jack herself, but…

…but Jack found herself swinging between feeling like a freak and simply feeling like an outsider.

"People-watching?"

Jack grimaced as she glanced sidelong at Kaidan. He'd stayed since she'd arrived, not crowding, but on hand. Whether because the instructors didn't trust her around the kids or for his own inscrutable reasons, she wasn't sure. "Sure."

Kaidan nodded, but took her taciturnity as preference for silence.


	3. Judge

The tribunal's chamber was a large, drafty room on Arcturus Station, currently hosting five judiciary admirals and all the trappings one would expect for a high profile hearing, even the press with their cameras and enthusiastic commentaries whenever they could slip away without missing anything to make them.

What they didn't know was that it was all for show, a stalling tactic.

Admiral Hackett repressed a grim smile: twenty years ago he'd have raged like a wounded varren if he thought someone in his beloved navy was receiving lukewarm judicial proceedings. Then again, he'd never counted on monsters actually living under the bed.

He sat with the other admirals on the board, frowning down at Shepard. She had finally lost that thousand-yard stare that had so unsettled him when she'd made contact after the Bahak Incident. Now, she waited calmly between Anderson and her counsel, meeting the gaze of anyone who caught her eye without timidity or shame.

But the lines were on her face were there for any career soldier to read: she'd made an ugly choice because the alternative was uglier. She clung to the knowledge that if they did not hang her, the stain on her name, on her service record, would be blasted away.

In short, and in layman's terms, she'd acquired the serenity of someone whom death didn't frighten, but for whom the future lay black indeed.

And, if she was right, putting her on Earth would put her right on the Reapers' number one destination. Unfortunately, Earth was the best place _to_ keep her. Not just 'keep' her, but 'keep her safe.'

She met his eyes. There was no appeal, no threat, nothing. Simple observation. She'd been so careful not to implicate him by word, deed, or obvious omission. But she was keeping his name out of the mud…and was waiting for some word or signal that might indicate how else she should proceed.

She'd hold her silence.

She did not look worried about being left out to dry; not with him sitting up with the rest of her judges. If anything, the corners of her mouth were pulling down as she listened to the summing-up of the organization to which she'd been tied—though, so far, there was very little proof. Emblems and insignias could be changed, and the _Normandy_ was being repainted even now.

What Shepard didn't know, and what might have comforted her, was that her anti-Reaper movement really was gaining momentum. How could she know? It was hard to explain to the folks back home to brace for imminent invasion by mechanical monsters who made a regular habit of executing pogroms against sentient life.

It was hard to prepare for something like this. Building a bomb shelter in a basement was not going to help much. He wondered, as she murmured something to Anderson, what Shepard would do to prepare for this.

Probably start laying in stockpiles, build as many heavy ground defense cannons as possible, start preparing for a worst-case scenario…and agree that that it _was_ kind of hard to prepare for something like this.

After a silent conference with the other judging admirals, Hackett ordered a recess 'for deliberation.'

He knew these admirals, and all of them had had access to Shepard's various mission reports. They were also all admirals who had served in conflict zones, who knew what it was to make wartime decisions. Not, perhaps, comparable to sacrificing a star system by blowing up its mass relay, but not everyone had Shepard's affinity for destruction. If anyone would see the writing on the wall, it would be them. And they represented segments of the Alliance's internal structure who would need this sort of information as well as time in which to work with it.

All Shepard had to do—and Hackett appreciated how hard it would be—was wait for the safety net to catch her.

-J-

Hackett took the primary seat and released the courtroom's occupants to sit. The press remained packed in wherever they were permitted to do so, trying desperately to catch Shepard in their cameras—Shepard's poker face remained impeccable—and the MPs continued to keep them from fighting amongst themselves, so many crows on a carcass.

Fortunately, since Shepard had been careful in answering questions, there was a lot of room for reporters to argue their various viewpoints. She volunteered nothing, answered questions succinctly, and had probably realized how carefully selected those questions were.

He pulled his attention to the matter at hand.

"Commander Shepard, please rise." Hackett got to his feet, looking down at the grim-faced soldier. Was she watching the last decade of her life swirl its way down the toilet? She couldn't be contemplating escape—there would be nowhere to run and no support when the arrival finally came.

Shepard got to her feet, chin lifted, proud and flanked by Anderson. The two highly decorated soldiers cut an impressive figure of military achievement and operative solidarity. It had been amusing, when the two of them walked in, to see the entire room jump to its feet to salute those two tiny medals hanging around those two soldiers' necks.

It wasn't often a courtroom saw a Star of Terra. It was even less often it saw two at the same time.

"Sir?" her voice carried, but held no inflection. She might have been responding to a hail while she occupied a workstation.

"This tribunal has decided that further investigation is necessary. A full trial is pending the results of that investigation. You will, meanwhile, be transferred to a secure Alliance holding facility until such a time as proceedings can begin. You may consider yourself indefinitely relieved of duty."

Shepard saluted crisply, her expression never changing—although Anderson looked upset.

This all said, to Hackett at least, that Shepard was loyal to a fault, that she still trusted the admiralty of her military to do what was honorable, and almost a half a dozen other nuances that the judiciary could appreciate.


	4. Jury

Snoopy—that was, Admiral Donald Beagle, formerly an Alliance Intelligence field operative—wanted to laugh out loud. He could see through Steven's smokescreen; for anyone who had access to Shepard's reports and had spoken to Steven at all about them, the reality was abundantly clear. Steven had given them all they needed to know to see that this was stalling. And if Steven believed in monsters in the dark places…well. There it was.

His fellow judge Marie de Montmorency looked as if she wanted to smack Steven upside the head for wasting their time.

It was a sad thing, though, to have to stand there in a place like this, with five judges scowling down at one. He would have said 'like one were a criminal' but he knew better: Shepard would have to carry that label until her Reapers showed up.

Not 'her' Reapers, _the_ Reapers. He remained skeptical but only because it was hard to believe they existed. The information retrieved by Shepard's team from their Collector-hunt (he maintained the Alliance had been stupid not to be looking into the Collectors' antics earnestly) was the right kind of thorough for his background in intel to identify as 'plausible and correct.' He couldn't ignore facts, even the strange ones.

He'd grown accustomed to strange facts the day he'd realized he was going to be gathering intel about aliens when aliens weren't supposed to exist.

-J-

Marie de Montmorency scowled at Steven. Two hours in that damned uncomfortable chair. He could have cut this down so much and left the press outside to wonder and shout their questions during the few moments they'd have opportunity to do so.

Unacceptable. She didn't say it, but the thought echoed in her mind: _I detest theatrics, Steven._

She tried not to squirm. She'd had to leave the field after a back injury. She couldn't just leave the military, but she hated being part of the bureaucratic machine. Technically, she worked oversaw Supply. She knew why she was here: the 'jury' was comprised of the people who would need the most time to act once the 'Reaper Threat' was relatively settled. Supply was a big part of that.

These chairs made her back hurt. Maybe that was why Steven let them get up out of them. The recess room's chairs weren't much better but _she'd_ felt better after being allowed to walk around. She glanced at Snoopy. For a former spook, he sure liked to smile, and he was doing it right now in the way that indicated things were falling out as he expected.

She looked back at Shepard, whose eyes remained fixed (but noncommittally so) on the judiciary box.

Well, good news for the kid: looked like she had three out of five so far.

-J-

Marc Cantu continued scowling at Anderson and Shepard. This whole thing was weird. He'd expected some kind of surprise at some point but hadn't gotten one. All he saw was that Steven wanted judgment deferred until the Reapers showed up and the case could be thrown out—anything else was awkward and counterproductive.

He sighed inwardly. This kangaroo court was a waste of time. He could already see what Marie was thinking: Thanix cannons on every ship.

The problem was you couldn't just _do_ things like that. It would get out, and then you'd have Council representatives breathing down your neck, asking 'what else have you been doing that we might find objectionable?'

Formerly an Alliance negotiator—back in the days when aliens were new—Marc knew more about negotiating with them than anyone else here. Some argued he should have hung up his blues and joined the Citadel diplomatic team, but at the time…why would he wave wanted to?

Listening to Ambassador Udina once made him wonder if he shouldn't have done so.

Listening to Councilor Udina _now_ made him sure he should have done it. There would be no help from the outside unless Udina was collared and _that_ wasn't within the Alliance's purview.

He wasn't one to think like Snoopy over there, but maybe a strategic assassination was what was needed. He still had trouble thinking of the Reapers as 'real,' but real or not it looked like the Alliance was trying to gear up for a war. If the Alliance said 'we're going to war' he'd do his job.

After all, he'd seen stories come to life before.

And he was the only one who really _noticed_ that every admiral on this judiciary bench, every member of the tribunal, everyone with hands on the proceedings, was a First Contact War veteran.

-J-

Brianna Bartlett chewed the inside of her lip. They'd come to an agreement during the recess—not that they'd needed all this time in the courtroom to do it. That was for the benefit of the muckrakers outside, given them something to fuss over, keep certain ideas fresh in their minds and in the minds of their viewers.

Nothing could be done about it, now was not the time to encourage any kind of belief about 'Reapers' or 'Collectors' or anything like that. No, now was the time to seed ideas.

And the Alliance had their own propaganda and news venues.

She would know, since she headed the Alliance's information network—not to be confused with intel. She'd bumbled into the 'propaganda corps' and still wasn't quite sure how. But she did her job and did it well. In this case, she'd have her scribes working day and night to release the right information in the right way through the right venues. Information was a funny thing.

She'd been part of the media coverage encouraging the human side to dial back so the First Contact War didn't turn into a First Contact Massacre. Her stomach still squirmed at the footage of turians dying of anaphylactic shock because human captors didn't know about dextro-dietary needs…

She knew the stomachs of other people squirmed too; imagine if they hadn't. She'd have been labeled 'a sympathizer.'


	5. Executor

It was a bad day.

Vega didn't know why (or how) he'd come to be included in the small number of non-essential personnel permitted to sit through Shepard's tribunal, but he had. He'd heard the whole of it, found himself morosely thinking that he knew what it was like to get stuck between a rock and a hard place…the only difference was that the stakes were higher and Shepard could talk dispassionately about her moment of being crunched.

It was an ugly situation, but he found himself agreeing with her and it looked like the panel of admirals agreed with her as well. Shepard hadn't talked Reapers or Collectors with him, past his original question 'why' and her answer about no-win situations. She'd kept to herself on the trip to Arcturus and had complied with every instruction since arriving. She wasn't acting like a puppet, merely as though her easy compliance would be remembered.

He wasn't sure whether she should have wasted her efforts being so agreeable.

Or was there something else going on, here? Until the hearing—during which Anderson had stuck to Shepard like glue—he, Vega, had been the point of contact between Shepard and anyone else.

"Commander Shepard, please rise."

Vega's eyes fixed on Admiral Hackett's grim face. The stern lines of his frown made the scars stand out in sharp relief under the overhead lights.

"Sir." Not a question. That was something about Shepard: what most people would make a question she often made a simple statement.

"This tribunal has decided that further investigation is necessary. A full trial is pending the results of that investigation. You will, meanwhile, be transferred to a secure Alliance holding facility until such a time as proceedings can begin. You may consider yourself indefinitely relieved of duty."

Shepard saluted, expression still schooled into neutrality. If this hurt her at all, it didn't show in any way Vega could detect. His stomach dropped several notches as, on cue, one of the MPs marched up to Shepard murmured what might have been an apology, and unfastened the rank tags from her uniform.

Shepard stood statue still as the woman performed her duty as the Lt. Commander's insignias were removed. Then again, and he wondered why it was late in coming to him, Shepard was a Spectre. Didn't that have some weight? After all, that made disciplinary actions the Council's job, right?

Well, at least keeping her on Earth would keep the batarians from trying anything stupid. If he'd got in trouble for being 'a Shepard lover' he could only imagine how much 'in trouble' she would get for _being_ Commander Shepard. Still, it seemed like a damn fine way to treat someone who'd kept the Reapers from walking in the back door. After all, he'd _seen_ Collectors. He could believe in Reapers.

"Admiral Anderson?" Hackett directed himself to Anderson, who stood beside Shepard. Shoulder to shoulder, really.

"Sir?"

"Shepard's transfer to Earth will commence within the solar day. Have your security officer remove her to the brig on the _SSV Normandy_ , then report to my chambers for full briefing. That is all."

The judicial panel got to their feet and trooped out.

"Lt. Vega." Anderson announced, stiff with the formality—almost ritual—required to finish the proceedings.

"Sir?" he did not succeed in making it sound like a declaration. He must have managed something, for Shepard's head turned, ever so slightly, as if to make it easier to hear him.

"You will conduct Shepard to the brig and sequester her in solitary confinement there until you are relieved," Anderson dictated, sounding as though he was reading off a cue card.

One of the security guards palmed him a pair of handcuffs as he exited the gallery. This explained why he was included. It struck Vega that this whole thing might be just for show. Not that the verdict wasn't real, but suddenly it seemed to him like there was a lot of paper shuffling, stalling…as if they were looking for excuses to push a real trial back.

Until the Reapers came and rendered the need for that stuff irrelevant?

Shepard had her hands behind her back, having assumed the 'at rest' stance once the judiciary panel left the room. She held her hands so he could easily slip the cuffs on without obstruction. "Sorry, ma'am," he breathed. It seemed…indecent…to cuff her.

"It's okay," she breathed. Not the fact that she was in cuffs, that wasn't really 'okay' to anyone, but it was an encouragement that he was executing lawful orders; there was nothing to be sorry for. She was a soldier; she understood 'execution of orders' perfectly well and there was no need on his part to apologize for his actions.

He fastened the restraints, feeling awkward, and took her by one arm. The muscles beneath his hand tensed at the touch, making him realize that she was much stronger than she looked. When she moved, it became very apparent who was leading whom. He was for show and felt sure of it.

He might as well make a good show, then.

She walked him out through the door indicated by one of the MPs—a door that got them around the disappointed press, as Vega discovered.

There was a vehicle to take them to the _Normandy's_ docking bay, and the ride took place in complete silence. He wanted to ask questions, but wasn't sure if that was appropriate or not with the two MPs in the front seat. Aside from that, Shepard rode with her eyes closed, her head bowed, but she did not give the impression of being asleep or unhappy. She just seemed to be in very deep thought, maybe even going over the trial again, scraping out the last vestiges of knowledge to be gathered from everything that had passed.

Vega glanced out the window. He might be executing his orders—and doing so to the letter—but it was not what he'd call a good day.


	6. Weep

It was almost unbearable to see her like that. Thin. Faded. Wasted away. "Hey, Mom," he forced a smile.

"Oh, Garrus," she whispered, frowning at him. "Always getting into scrapes—let's see it, then." She folded her hands on her stomach, her mandibles waving.

With a resigned sigh, he turned his head, revealing the full extent of the damage he'd tried to keep out of sight. "Oh, Garrus," she repeated. "Well," she reached out a hand that shook uncontrollably, result of the neurological damage wreaked by the Corpalis Syndrome.

Garrus took it, keenly aware of the papery, flaky quality of the carapace on her hand, and the dry, raspy feel of the skin on her palms. He had to suppress the little boy-ish urge to burst into tears right there.

"Well, you're still a handsome young man. I'm glad you finally came to see me."

The easy comfort with which she treated the meeting was almost sickening. He couldn't say why, but her pleasant conversation as Death continued dragging her away, moment by moment, inch by inch, made him feel sick. Maybe he'd been a fighter too long, watched too many people making Death fight for every inch he gained only to kick him in the face when he got too close and regain some of the lost ground. It was hard watch his mother slide quietly towards the precipice that would leave her plummeting out of the world.

"It won't be long, now," she said, correctly perceiving some of her son's thoughts. "I want you to do something for me. Three somethings, actually."

"What?" If she wanted one of the mythological silver chalices—one of those 'great healing power' artifacts old stories often mentioned—he'd find it. Or die trying.

"I want to know what you've been up to since you quit C-Sec. And," she added, with a touch of her old firmness when demanding an account of childhood wrongdoing, "don't think for a minute I can't tell when you're not being completely honest. Don't leave out interesting details."

Garrus gave an involuntary chuckle. "You want to hear about me shooting up the galaxy?"

"What else have I to occupy my remaining time?" she asked benignly, fixing him with that 'Mother Look.'

Garrus looked away. "What are the other two things?"

"They can wait."

Garrus sighed, then plunged into a truncated account. There was a difference between truncation and omission, and his mother would know it.

"Ah. You've been so busy. I knew you had to be."

Which meant she had, probably repeatedly, silenced Solana's complaints about having a good-for-nothing brother with patience for both her children.

"What are the other two things?" he repeated.

His mother was silent for a few moments during which her tremors increased to the point that Garrus wanted to shout for the physician. Then, they subsided, but there was a glazed look in his mother's eyes. "I want you to take what you've told me—and what you haven't…" she paused, her gaze unfixed, as if she was looking out of the corporeal world entirely. Then, she came back, "…and I want you to take it to your father. I want you both to make peace. And I think that the only way you can do that is when you can't bear to fight anymore." She shook her head. "You're too much alike for anything but shared grief to bring together."

Which was a very turian sentiment: 'make my death mean something.'

Garrus swallowed, then nodded. "Okay. I'll-I'll do that." He didn't have much hope that his father would _listen_ to such a far-fetched story as the chronicle of the past few years, but he couldn't bear the thought of disappointing his mother again.

"And the last thing," she continued before her expression hardened and her grip tightened, "I want you to stop those… _things_." Some of her old fire showed and Garrus suddenly understood one of those humanisms that referenced tech so outdated that even humans couldn't remember exactly how it worked: _the lightbulb flares brightest just before it burns out._ "This is your war," she continued with a quiet ferocity that had, on numerous occasions, stopped a full-swing argument between Garrus and his father. "This is what you were born to do. I can _feel_ it."

Garrus swallowed. It was a lot to promise and he had to admit that the chances of success were…low. To say the least 'the chances of success were low'. But 'I'll try' had never worked on his mother, and he had no reason to believe it would work now. "Okay…I'll do what I can."

She nodded, her grip relaxing, the strength that had suddenly filled her seeping out, leaving her once again weak and withered. After a few moments of silence, she let go of his hand. "Ask your father to come in here. I want him."

Garrus nodded, reading into the statement that she was literally counting down the minutes of her life. He nibbled at her eyebrow ridge—the turian equivalent of a kiss on the forehead—and withdrew. He cast a weary look at his father, who waited with Solana in the hallway. "She wants you, Dad."

His father looked as though someone had just struck a knife into him, but he composed his expression, nodded once, and strode into the room.

Garrus collapsed on the nearest bench, closing his eyes as their mucosal film thickened.

He flinched when a weight settled beside him, immediately followed by an arm around his shoulders. "I'm glad you're here," Solana murmured, her voice throaty. She shook as she tried to repress grief; it wasn't appropriate to grieve before the life in question actually ended.

Garrus reached an arm around her. Other species were more practical, and it showed how much time he'd spent around them. He didn't bother waiting for his mother to slip away. Now was as good a time to start grieving as any other.

He knew he wouldn't see her alive ever again.


	7. Detente

According to turian custom—a custom delayed until the body of Valeria Vakarian could be brought to Palaven for cremation and interment—all the lights in the Vakarian household were off, except for the pyramidal and spherical candles in their sand-filled rhomboid dishes. The windows were all covered, plunging the interior house into semi-darkness. Those little dancing lights in the dark were thought to draw the spirit of the departed loved one, to encourage them to linger where they were most needed before they moved to settle wherever the spirit felt it needed to be.

The dietary restrictions for the two-day mourning period were evidenced in the large, dark jars of water stationed here and there near the candles.

Garrus couldn't count the number of hours he'd stayed in his old room, curled up and grieving. He had expected to be hit hard by his mother's death, but this seemed worse than anything he had braced for.

Or maybe her last two requests—one of which he was putting off—weighed so heavily on him.

The simple act of curling up on a bed made to accommodate a turian frame brought some comfort, but not enough. He'd been among humans so long he'd almost forgotten what it was like to not have to use the mobile bunk.

A soft knock sounded on the door, an awkward, self-conscious knock that told him it was his father, not his sister. "…Garrus?"

"I'm awake." He sat up, turned to face the door. His father took two steps into the room and stumbled over something, swearing softly. It was odd to see Antilles Vakarian stiff with self-consciousness, but he was _very_ stiff and _very_ self-conscious, as if he didn't know how to begin the conversation. "Val—your mother—" he stopped, cleared his throat and, when he spoke again, his tone lacked some of the aggressive 'get it done' or 'your mom said _do_ , so I'm doing' nuances. "Why don't you tell me what you've been up to these last few years…son." Antilles cleared his throat a few times (reminding Garrus oddly of Wrex) before sitting down on the floor, leaning against Garrus' bed.

Garrus frowned at the back of his father's head. There had been a time when Antilles had sat just like that in his son's room. He'd stopped reading bedtime stories—or making them up—around the time Garrus turned ten. Antilles left the verbal cue at that, retreating into a sort of meditative silence, giving the impression that he would wait until given an obvious verbal cue to leave.

"I don't even know where to start." That had more to do with the fact that he and his father hadn't sat down to talk like rational sentients in years. Communication broke down around the time Garrus turned thirteen.

"Start at the beginning." There was unusual patience in the tone.

Garrus pulled his mandibles close to his jaw, then wrapped his arms around his knees. He was on the verge of saying he didn't know how, now that he had an attentive audience, when Antilles spoke up. "When and where, Garrus?" The leading question had good memories attached to it, fictional whodunnits to instill order and method in an overenthusiastic child.

"I was on the Citadel, 2183, investigating Saren." Who, where, when, doing what…how. He needed a 'how.' "Through the normal C-Sec channels. I didn't turn anything up so the Executor pulled me off the case. But I had a hunch, so I followed it up without the Executor's blessing."

Now that he was talking, it was easier to keep going. It was much easier to keep going because his father didn't interrupt him. He made as if to ask a question or add his two credits, but always checked himself with the nod that meant he was listening.

-J-

It was killing Antilles Vakarian not to interrupt his son. Around the time that Shepard's ship got shot out from under her, Garrus had climbed off his bed and sat down on the floor as he continued the narrative. At about the time Garrus explained why he looked like he'd gotten into a fight with a gunship, Antilles reached out and wrapped an arm around his him.

It was odd, sitting there in the dark, his heart bleeding from the loss of his wife, listening to his son expound upon an impossible scenario that seemed more and more to be possible.

Because the story fit together, so many tangled trailing threads of fact and circumstance began to come together, weaving a frame around an immense empty space. And the empty space was indicative of something present, like a black hole. One 'saw' it because of what once could not actually see.

Antilles drew his mandibles close to his face, resisting the urge to interrupt and ask for clarification on a recent but prior point. Garrus was not good with putting details in their proper places. He tended to find the big pieces, move ahead a little, then double back to put the little pieces in where they belonged. As such, it made Garrus a very poor verbal narrator. If he could have written all this down it would have been different, more orderly.

Garrus' story also answered a few questions he had kept to himself for the past few years.

"So that's all of it?" he asked once Garrus exhaled, fell silent and stayed silent.

"Yeah, that's all of it. I think." Garrus cleared his throat, scratchy from having narrated for so long.

"Okay," he nodded.

"Do you believe me?"

The question as so reminiscent of a much younger Garrus that Antilles tightened his arm around his son. "I believe you. And as soon as the funerary observances are done…we'll get to work on it." He'd expected Garrus to jump up, or protest that they needed to get started _now_.

But he didn't. He merely took in a deep breath, let it out, and stayed where he was. "Good. That…that's good, dad."


	8. Alternative

Jack had had enough. It was just embarrassing by this point, and she didn't mean the stupid cutesy uniforms, which she persisted in wearing improperly, just to see what the staff would do about it.

Rodriguez wasn't an idiot, but she was flakey about her barriers. Girl could pulverize a shuttle into a pancake with one barrage (given enough time) but she couldn't keep her shields up to save her life.

Which was the problem, since most of these kids would enlist once they graduated school. Although the Alliance didn't _run_ Grissom, as Jack discovered, they did help fund it so there was a certain amount of pro-military propaganda.

Jack found she approved: it was a guaranteed job, and a human biotic in the human military was safer than a human biotic out on their own. She spoke from experience.

Not that any of the kids knew much about her, and they knew nothing about her past. But, over a few months, the wall between her and them had begun to crumble in places. The thing was, the kids just didn't know what to do about her, whether to ignore her (as she seemed to prefer solitude) or reach out (since she tended to hang around the edges, a silent, taciturn observer).

She wasn't sure what to do about them. One the one hand, she was so much older. On the other hand, she often felt so much younger, or close to the age of the older students.

But uncertainty had to give way, because the girl needed help. And not the soft, fluffy help Grissom provided. She needed a swift kick and double-time, because deflecting tennis balls pitched by that weird little machine for kids practicing tennis solo wasn't going to help.

"Your barrier still sucks," Jack announced flatly, making Rodriguez jump.

Rodriguez's lapse in attentiveness ended with a tennis ball zipping past her ear (which made her jump again).

Jack flicked up a hand and caught the ball, a blue cloud keeping the speeding object from taking her hand off. "Might wanna turn that thing off. Before it kills you."

Rodriguez glared warily, but turned off the machine. "I'm working on the barrier thing," she declared petulantly. "It's just not _my_ thing."

"Bullshit. You're just flakey about it."

Rodriguez's unease at being accosted by the unknown Jack represented was boiling off in the way only kids who knew what it was to be safe could manage. "That's what the tennis balls are for. Those things _hurt_ if they hit you."

"So does this." Jack flared, the lack of amp making such a display 'safer.' She didn't want to kill the kid after all.

She hadn't liked Khalee Sanders' request that she not wear her amp, even if she was allowed to keep it. She hadn't liked this—it wasn't really a request—but she appreciated Sanders' attached comment: 'it's not like _you_ need it, not in a place like this.'

And she knew Sanders meant this because Jack was powerful enough to do a lot of damage without amp to begin with. You never really saw security on Grissom station, though they undoubtedly lurked somewhere. Just in case.

Grudgingly, she'd complied. Nevertheless, she carried her amp with her in its case. Just in case.

Neither Sanders nor anyone else complained about it.

Rodriguez shrieked as the fist-sized ball of blue-purple light came speeding at her. It hit her hastily-raised barriers, shivering them as Rodriguez' arms flew up to protect her face.

"Seriously? You're worried about me _punching_ you? Shit," Jack sneered and lobbed another fist-sized ball of dark energy at the girl.

"Are you crazy?!" Rodriguez yelped, although Jack saw her barrier firm up a bit under the second contact.

"Sure. Better than what you're doing: no one stops hurting you because you ask them to."

Another attack slammed a better-constructed barrier. "Knock it off already!" Rodriguez snapped, sweat standing out on her skin, fear that this unknown might just actually hurt her in her eyes.

"Or tell them to."

Painful personal experience.

Jack slammed Rodriguez's barriers again.

This time, Rodriguez took the attack and retaliated, sensing a blast of her own back at Jack, who lazily twitched a barrier into place. "Not bad. Doesn't help your barrier, though."

She retaliated.

This time, after Rodriguez took the blast, planting her feet and actually _weathering_ the attack instead of trying to repel it—which was the point—a muffled voice from the observation gallery called out, "Hit her again!"

"Screw you, Prangley!" Rodriguez shouted, her face turning red, green eyes flashing.

"No one asked you, Skippy," Jack commanded, gesturing to Prangley—which left the rest of the students laughing.

While Rodriguez looked up at the other kids, Jack sent another attack at her.

This time, Rodriguez didn't get her barrier up, and found herself plowed into the floor.

It was totally nonlethal, so she didn't see why the kids were suddenly screaming.

"Oh, ow…" Rodriguez groaned, rubbing her midsection.

"Yeah. So watch your damn barriers." Jack turned on her heel, certain someone was going to come swooping down on her.

Well, the kid needed a good smackdown. Maybe then she'd get it right.

"How?! If you're gonna teach try teaching, huh?"

"Easy." Jack looked over her shoulder at the fuming teenager. "You don't let them hit _you_. Barriers don't care. Hitting them doesn't matter."

"Thanks," Rodriguez ground out.

"Whatever." It wasn't until she was out in the hall that Jack realized what she'd meant versus what she'd said.

 _Hitting them doesn't matter_. It suggested that however much the barrier didn't count, the kid did matter.

Jack's mouth twisted as she considered. It was stupid. What did it matter to her if the kid got pummeled the first time she got thrown in the shit? She'd learn then, if she survived. It had been a good enough learning curve for Jack herself, after all.

And yet…part of her wanted to spare the kid that particular curve.

Shit. It was complicated.


	9. Sculptor

"Who's the kid you've had lurking around?" Shepard asked, once she and Anderson were closeted together, prior to her removal from Arcturus and subsequent transfer to Vancouver.

Anderson sat down, making himself comfortable. "First lieutenant, got a record for…let's just call him a noisy misguided kind of soldier. Heart's in the right place, though."

"I know what that means," Shepard's expression twisted. "I'm a criminal, Anderson."

"You're indefinitely relieved of duty," Anderson cut across her, "you weren't court martialed, you weren't convicted, and you're sure as hell not guilty."

Shepard nodded once: when Anderson said 'not guilty' he meant 'you're responsible.' Guilt didn't come into wartime decisions and she found some comfort in the words. There was arguably enough evidence to convict her based on her own testimony.

"I want you to have a look at him, see what you think," Anderson encouraged.

Shepard took a deep breath. "Okay. I'll have a look at him. What do you want me to do with him?"

"That depends on what you see. I did consider letting Sheffler vet him; they've got some common history. But you've got more patience for…" He seemed to grope for the right word, a word with nuance.

"Impetuous?"

"…impetuous people," Anderson agreed.

"He got baggage?"

"Who doesn't?"

Shepard considered then shook her head. It was a fair question.

It bolstered her sense of self to know that Anderson still reposed confidence in her ability to pick and shape new talent. "All right, let's have a look at him. I'll chat him up a bit. Then we'll talk again this evening. Would that work for you?"

"That's the answer I was hoping for."

-J-

Shepard looked James Vega up and down, purposely letting him know with how much intensity an observer could bring to bear. He was solid, a bit on the short side, and clearly liked being inked. He also stood ramrod straight, seemed ready to jump if she said 'frog.' He wanted to make a good impression, not on a woman, of course—N7s were only 'women' (when they were women) to the ones who were closest to them—but as one of the very best of the Alliance's very best, an N7.

She had the impression Vega wasn't the sort to care about Spectre-hood. He was a lifer, but also grunt: if he couldn't do it out in the open, above board, he wouldn't do it. He wasn't the sort for deniable actions.

There was a fire in his eyes she liked, even if there was admiration bordering on hero worship. She knew that look; it was in the eyes of every N-candidate the first time they saw a fully turned-out N7 strutting through the Villa—and the fresh meat always got to see at least one N7 in their dress blues and laurels. They saw a challenge; most would stall with at N1—and most would be satisfied. By the time you had your first level of qualifications, just advancing wasn't a goal anymore. Washing out didn't have the same connotations for the N-program as it did elsewhere. By the time a recruit had that tiny little pin, they had nothing left to prove. An N found their limits and held their heads up with pride, one or seven.

So she knew that look; she also knew by instinct that whatever his faults, he would match her step for step until his feet blistered, bled, and fell off…if he was motivated. But the tidbit needed to inspire him was already evident: he had something to prove. Not to her, she was simply a convenient person to prove it to, someone with ridiculously high standards, based on her own achievements.

He didn't know her, couldn't know that she did not use her own experiences as a gauge of another sapient's worth.

She wanted him to say something, anything really. Give her an idea of the kind of man she was dealing with. She fixed her gaze on his, as if she could read his thoughts etched into the inside of his skull.

"Starting to feel like I'm on the butcher's block, ma'am."

Shepard found her mouth twisting into a grim smile. "I like him."

Anderson nodded at this, looking pleased. Vega caught that something had passed over his head and under the radar, but he didn't remark upon it. But he knew he'd missed something, and consequently seemed to come on guard.

-J-

"I thought you'd like him," Anderson said, later the same day.

"I want him to bring his baggage to me, but only once he's ready." He was the blunt sort, she'd figured that out within seconds of talking to him. He didn't dissemble, he didn't use two words when one would get his point across. "Anything else I should know about him? You're not sticking him with me just because I'm patient." Then, when Anderson did not answer her right away—rightly guessing that part of this was her thinking out loud, "You like him."

"I like him."

That settled the matter. James Vega's fate, though he might not know it, had just be decided upon by two of the N-program's luminaries.

"He's an admirer. He'll bust his ass for you, but he's stubborn as a damn mule and all the hero worship in the world won't stop him from digging his heels in if he takes it into his head to do it. He needs someone to ply the whip when he balks. He also needs someone standing by with a bucket of cold water when he gets hot-headed."

"Does he want it?"

"He will want it."

Shepard's smile had humor in it now. "I'll take your bull and turn him into a rhinoceros."

"Good. I leave him to you."

It went without saying that, until she regained her liberty, any plans would have to wait.

But time and familiarity would give her insight; when the time came to begin molding Vega to fit his new role, Shepard would be ready to start.

-J-

Author's Note: Special thanks to Mai-Danishgirl for spotting that FF-net had done something hinky to this chapter!


	10. Vetted

After more than a week on Arcturus, Shepard—indefinitely relieved of duty—was going to be transferred to Alliance Headquarters in Vancouver. Anderson was not accompanying her on this leg of the journey, which meant—according to Anderson—Vega was going to be Shepard's best friend.

He harbored some secret suspicion that the devious old Admiral had ulterior motives, but he wasn't sure what they were.

Vega shifted uncomfortably as he stood in front of the two officers the day of departure, with Shepard looked him up and down. The way she regarded him, the way she was doing it now, did it made him feel…naked.

Not in the sense that she was undressing him with her eyes—he could have handled that and returned fire. No, what got him was the sense that she was stripping away what most people would see, looking at his basic fibers, assessing his weak spots. Peeling him like an onion with the intent of continuing to do so until she found where the peeling process hurt.

It was like being under a microscope. She could probably tell him the exact number of hairs that made up his scruffy stubble.

"Starting to feel like I'm on the butcher's block, ma'am." He began to suspect the reason he'd been a hanging around in the periphery since being tapped for duty was simply so she could get used to seeing him—so she wouldn't be saddled with a security detail she didn't know from the janitorial staff.

Shepard smiled humorlessly, turned her head to Anderson. "I like him."

There was more in the three words than simply the Shepard stamp of approval.

Anderson clearly thought so too, for his expression became almost indulgent.

Whatever the subtext was, Vega wasn't sure what it was, but he knew it was there.

"Be _nice_ ," the older man cautioned.

"I'm hurt. I'm _really_ hurt, _Admiral_." Shepard shook her head as though inviting sympathy over a slight against her character.

Vega was glad to see Shepard starting to bounce back; it had started once she'd been sequestered on the Normandy. She'd looked pretty rough between Omega and now. On the few occasions he'd had close contact with her she'd either seemed half lucid or like a robot. Maybe they had her on pills? Somehow he didn't think so. A combination of shocks wearing off? That sounded a little more likely. Maybe she now knew something that comforted her.

He wondered about the circumstances that could push someone like her to blow up a mass relay. She'd done it, she admitted it, but it seemed very…out of character…from what he knew of her.

Not that he knew much; he had the essentials. She was an N7, one of the toughest, meanest, cleverest soldiers the Systems Alliance turned out. She was the only one who'd done _anything_ about those Collector bastards…and he currently had her undivided attention.

"Not yet you're not." Anderson clapped Shepard on the shoulder. "I'm glad you like him. Get used to him: he's going to be your best friend."

"Naturally." Shepard shook her head as Anderson exited. She gestured to the small table with its two chairs. "Have a seat." She picked the chair facing the large, currently opaque, window. When Vega did not obey, "I don't bite: sit down." She tapped the table with one finger.

Vega wanted to ask 'what if I want to stand?' but found that Shepard's level gaze, which evidenced the unwavering patience of a boulder growing moss, was an effective tool in her arsenal.

He sat down across from her, perching on the edge of the seat.

"I already know your name, but why don't you introduce yourself?" When his eyebrows knit together, she shook her head slowly, as though at a stubborn horse. "You pick things up when someone introduces themselves. For instance, I _know_ that your name is James Jonas Vega. Doesn't tell me much; it's like saying 'the sky is blue.' When it _is_ ," she added, remembering worlds where the sky wasn't.

"Vega's fine." Vega continued frowning at Shepard, who seemed to be waiting for him to say what was on his mind. "You're not what I was expecting, ma'am."

"Just Shepard, Vega. What were you expecting?"

"Not what I'm getting." He couldn't articulate it. Anyone in the service who'd heard of her knew that Shepard had a personal aura, that made being in a confined space with her like being in close quarters with a big predator.

This was true, except this predator wasn't interested in him.

She was cited as being manipulative (in good and bad contexts, depending on who one asked) and he certainly got that: he felt like a plastic figure she was turning this way and that, as she inspected it, she was musing how to place him for greatest effect.

It struck him as very benign and he had to wonder what, exactly, she meant by 'I like him.' It clearly meant something to Anderson, something the older soldier approved.

"Fair enough. People in person are never like they are on paper. So," her tone became less professional, less assessing, "you're obviously not a conscript, you obviously didn't piss off Anderson and get posted as my babysitter as a punishment, you have expectations, and you haven't asked the all-important question."

"What's the all-important question?"

"Am I crazy?"

Vega frowned at this. "Am _I_ crazy or are _you_ crazy?"

" _Exactly_."

Vega shook his head slowly. He knew _he_ was a little crazy: it was why things went sideways when he was around. He knew _she_ was crazy, but it was the good kind of crazy for a marine to be. One could not be considered 'not crazy' when she charged a Mako through a relatively untested poorly-understood Prothean device, crash the rover onto the Citadel, and proceed to slaughter geth until the Fleet got its act together and took out that Reaper-bastard.

"Crazy. I think all around crazy."

"Good."

…he was feeling that bad feeling.


	11. Fracas

The crash brought Vega into the medical room, or would have had the door not been locked. His orders were clear: Shepard was his responsibility. In fact, he didn't even think that hard about it. The door was locked. It shouldn't have been.

He kicked it open, heartrate spiking.

The door banged open as he took in the scene of chaos.

Medical implements lay on the floor, threatening to get under the feet of Shepard and the tech.

Shepard, down to bra, boots, and trousers, was locked in a grapple with the lab tech, her expression hard, eyes blazing. She was a lean whipcord of a woman, hard planes and muscle corded tight under her skin. The scars across her belly gleamed white in the examination room light. Thick gouges and valleys of scars ran across her shoulders, like someone had rubbed her into broken glass.

The tech looked at the noise of his entrance as Vega went for his sidearm. The motion seemed so slow—

Shepard did not bother looking. She didn't flinch, didn't even seem to register she had backup.

She merely took advantage of the tech's distraction, kneed him viciously in the groin caught him under the chin with her palm to snap his head back as he recoiled in pain, she grabbed his arm and broke his elbow with one practiced motion.

He flailed at her, but with the elbow broken, the syringe slipped out of his hand. Shepard grabbed his hair in one hand, a handful of shoulder in the other and slammed his face into her knee. Once. Twice. Three times, leaving it in a bloody ruin. A sharp twitch and an audible crack and the tech went limp.

Shepard dropped the body—obviously dead—retrieving the syringe with its clear contents.

It had happened in less time than it took for Vega to free his gun and acquire is target.

The light of the examination room played across the scars on her shoulders, casting them into sharp relief. Her skin shone with sweat and she shivered with adrenaline—but her hands were steady and her expression angry rather than scared. Although she breathed heavily, he was sure it was simply efficient intake of oxygen—she wasn't truly winded.

That was to be expected from an N, but he found himself having trouble wrapping his head around what he'd just seen—not the least because it shouldn't be possible for an assassin to get in here at all. She had taken the man out so easily, the movements stringing together like a choreographed fight scene for a movie. Hands training never looked quite like that; she knew exactly how hard to hit, knew to the centimeter where she needed to land a blow, and did it all with practiced effortlessness.

More than that, she'd been in control of the situation before he even got in there and had it over with before he could pull his pistol. All it took was a moment of distraction to give her the upper hand she would have had sooner or later.

And no kung-fu stuff.

He knew enough about punches, kicks, and knees to recognize that Shepard hit like a damn truck. Even he'd be feeling a beating like that—drop-kick aside.

She turned letting out a shaky breath that seemed to start the process of pushing all the amped-up energy and adrenaline out of her.

Her stomach was decorated with scars of another kind, these white, and showing up only as the lights played across the flesh.

She was a lean, hard specimen of humanity and, in that moment, was battle ready. Kill ready. Her eyes bored into him, bright above pink cheeks. It was a fragment of his original expectations looking at him: she was a tiger in a cage. However, he saw the cage for what it was: she caged the fiery soul within walls of flesh and sinew, a failsafe in case something ever let the tiger out.

Controlled, the tiger was a weapon. Uncontrolled, it was a blight. It was ferocity, but ferocity guided by a human mind. And this tiger was what was going to lead the fight against the Reapers.

A shiver went through Vega, a tightening of his throat, and something, some fragment of poetry he'd completely forgotten until that moment came back to him. Something about a tiger and nighttime forests.

Shepard shattered his reverie by speaking, her tone calm and casual if a little hard. Who wouldn't sound a little hard? Someone had just tried to kill her while she was in protective frikkin' custody. "We need to find out what that shit was." She found the cap for the syringe and put it back into place and handed it over to him. "Thank you Miranda…" Shepard breathed when Vega took the slender weapon from her.

Vega didn't ask who 'Miranda' was, but it was clear that the woman had given Shepard some advice. "Shepard, I—"

Shepard shook her head once, then ran a hand through her hair. "Response time is good. Nice work with the door, by the way." Although she'd cut him off, she sounded approving and not the least bit sarcastic.

Before Vega could formulate a response—in his head or in his mouth—Shepard smirked at him. "I didn't exactly call for help."

"How am I supposed to protect you if you don't?" he demanded, feeling mulishness replace that momentary…awe.

Shepard snorted. "Easy. You don't." She looked at the pistol. "What were you planning to do with that? Shoot through me?"

"Hell no!"

Shepard shook her head, but made no further comment. She simply walked over to the table where her shirt was and pulled it on, tucking it in as if nothing untoward had happened.

" _Are_ you okay?" Vega asked, wishing he had something else to say. Anything else.

Shepard smirked at him. "I'm fine, Vega. Really. You gonna call security, now?"

Vega snorted. Security. Right.

How'd this creep get in?

-J-

Author's Note: A little on the predictable side, but I just couldn't see Cerberus not trying to contain the Shepard situation somehow.


	12. Eyes

By her fourth week of incarceration, Shepard knew that she had a nine-man security team, beginning with Vega, who was technically outside the rotation, and eight men working four hour shifts on an every-other-day basis. The eight never made contact and if she hadn't been trained of keep her eyes open she might not have noticed them. Whoever set up her security hadn't taken chances: the two days and the two nights swapped their shifts at every complete eight-day cycle—though days and nights never swapped. The security guy had gone to some effort to keep her from catching repeating faces.

She wasn't sure whether this was so she didn't feel like she was under a microscope, as a sign of trust without compromising common sense, or somehow for her security's protection. The less she knew the better? It had become clear to her that James was blind to the extent of the net keeping her safe. It was why he pulled such long hours.

That all her watchers had the nametag 'Jones' or 'Smith' wasn't subtle, either, if one was an observant person. Jones and Smith. J and S.

Or maybe the guy had a sense of humor.

She thought they might be pulled from Intelligence or one of its subsets. When she'd finally greeted Night-Shift Smith One with a knowing look, he hadn't seemed particularly surprised or discomposed. He'd merely responded, "Good evening, Ms. Shepard," as though they were casual acquaintances of the lunchroom.

And poor Vega caught something of the subtext, but hadn't quite put it together. His mind was an ingenuous one, and he was not used to looking at the world in the way Ns were trained to.

When asked how she knew Smith One—a casual question, devoid of suspicion—Shepard had answered that she knew his brother casually, and recognized him by sight.

Explanation accepted.

-J-

Sid Dutrow of the Intelligence Branch of the Human Systems Alliance sighed heavily, frowning at his peach water. He now owed Admiral Anderson a hundred credits. The thought was dismal and left him feeling almost sulky. Cleverness thwarted was never a pleasant thing to swallow. So he contented himself by drowning his disappointment in fizzy peach water and keeping an eye on Shepard.

The bet that he could keep Shepard ignorant of her security net without compromising her safety to do it had seemed a winnable thing. Completely and utterly. And she'd gone and ruined it. He'd be irritated if she hadn't been so subtle about calling attention to the fact that she _had_ figured it out.

She guessed that someone—him in particular—had reasons for keeping things so discreet. So she had allowed that film of discretion to remain in place, letting out just enough that anyone observing would know that she was in on the scheme.

Shepard was a high-priority target, and the admirals who had bounced her to Earth to await trial proper hadn't been comfortable with normal security. With so many guns—and some of them used to subtlety, or buying subtlety to kill for them—pointed at Shepard, it had been his job to make sure she was as safe as safe could be.

So he'd come up with the eight-man alternating, rotating schedule; he'd hand-picked his men, done everything he could to ensure that security remained tight—that meant false nametags and them being on indefinite special tours of duty as far as anyone personally connected with them went.

Shepard wouldn't see the same faces every day and wouldn't see them at the same times every day. Anderson had indicated that Shepard would sort this out fairly quickly, because she was trained to do it. He had argued that she didn't get out enough to put four and four together and figure out a rotating schedule.

Apparently she did get out often enough, or she'd been looking for them since one man alone did not a security detail make. She'd startled the living daylights out of Manny Drummond when, walking past, she'd winked at him before greeting him as 'Mr. Jones.'

He hadn't realized what he'd done with 'Jones' and 'Smith' until it was too late. Subconscious association of ideas. He'd been looking at common surnames, surnames that wouldn't stand out if there were several of them. He'd been too clever, he thought wryly.

Tim Ruger had not been surprised when, three days before identifying Manny, Shepard had smirked knowingly at him and greeted _him_ : 'Good evening, Mr. Smith.' Tim had a cousin in the N program and had indicated that sooner or later she would notice. The program taught its graduates to look, to think, to work their minds in ways other than the standard training prescribed. They were a breed of their own and N7s were the apex of specialized warfare.

It would have made Anderson smile to have heard that, all stated as cold fact without an ounce of awe or approval.

The listening bugs in her quarters gave him her conversation with Vega: that she knew 'Mr. Smith's brother' but recognized 'Mr. Smith' by association. Vega had accepted this answer casually and hadn't sensed the distorted truth.

Sid was sure Shepard had never believed she would be afforded much privacy, so he was sure the comment was really for him: _I know what you're doing, whoever you are, and I know how you're doing it, too_.

Now he owed Anderson a hundred credits and would have to suffer the smug 'I told you so' look the Admiral would try to hide.

It didn't matter in the end, Sid thought wryly. At least Shepard would know who _not_ to attack if something bad happened.

On this point he agreed with Anderson: Shepard was a high profile target, and the person who could get close enough to hurt her would go down in history either as proof that she was not unreachable or as the sapient who killed Lt. Commander Jalissa Shepard. Either way wouldn't be good for business.


	13. Asylum

Shepard knew, when she was encouraged to adhere to the graveyard shift, that her incarceration was more of a formality than anything else. It turned out that 'incarceration' was more like house arrest or diplomatic detention—a protective measure, not a punitive one, though certainly the wider world and the wider galaxy would remain oblivious to this fact.

The room was certainly cushier than she expected: her own large bed, bookshelves with books borrowed from the detention center's small library (or borrowed on her behalf from the Base library by Vega). She had her own Extranet terminal—with read-only browsing privileges and no access to any incoming messages not screened and certified by whoever was handling her browsing history. It was in this way that she was able to maintain a few conversations—all of them Alliance personnel. She even had her own tiny private bathroom.

Robbins had had a blistering first letter, blasting her former protégé with a solid wall of condemnation. Not for the Cerberus thing—Robbins gave the impression Shepard had been undercover—but for not making real and proper contact once her cover was blown. Robbins had also had a few not-so-nice things to say about Shepard's 'biotic box of rocks.'

Anderson, ever constant, messaged her regularly. Of course, he didn't (or couldn't) say much, but she found even frivolous conversation, even short conversation, a marvelous thing.

She'd heard from Forbes, who had promised to visit if it were at all possible. There had been a tone of caution in his letter, as though he wasn't sure what or how much to believe about what was being said of her. She wasn't sure she'd be allowed visitors, but she hoped. Hope was a powerful thing.

She did not expect to hear from any of either of her _Normandy_ crews—SR-1 or SR-2. Therefore, she was not disappointed when she didn't. She did wonder and worry about them, though, especially Joker and Dr. Chakwas.

She had Vega for company. If being stuck on graves bothered him, he didn't let on. Anderson was pulling out one of the older training methods with the lad. Clearly, the admiral expected that Vega wouldn't see the Villa anytime soon and that training in the traditional way would have to come later. In the meantime, she would just have to manage the groundwork. So it started with trust in the idea that she wouldn't snap at him if his conversation poked something that hurt, that the worst that could happen was a polite decline to answer with a reason given. There had to be a reason given. He was curious, but careful not to be nosey; apparently he hadn't traveled as extensively as she had and was fascinated by strange sights in the galaxy as he was about things an N7 did.

He also proved to be good company and a stalwart backer when she got back to her quarters frustrated almost to breaking something. This usually happened when she had to talk to someone from the science department, or R&D, or any of the dozen or more people allowed to grill her about her experiences—either with Cerberus or with Prothean tech. Part of her wondered if they were just trying to provoke her for some reason. Part of her wondered if she was just being paranoid.

She did not have free run of the detention facility, but during the low activity level hours she could and did make use of the gym and the closest thing to a shooting range she could get—a simulator, but better than nothing. She also had access to the small 'yard,' which she usually used to get a little bit of sun and fresh air in the mornings before people really started swarming around the facility.

She made good use of the gym, too. Sometimes she and Vega played one-on-one basketball (she had expected him to be competitive and damn if he wasn't, with a little prodding); sometimes she stuck to the weights and traditional calisthenics; sometimes she threw herself onto one of the machines. She noticed she used the treadmill more than she ever had in the past. That was odd, since she didn't even like the treadmill. Or maybe it suited her sense of needing to be _out and moving_ when she was stuck _inside and waiting_. Or maybe she simply missed the freedom of being in space—she wasn't fond of living groundside and hadn't been since Mindoir.

It occurred to her, the first time this thought came to her, that she hadn't marked Mindoir during the last year. Nor had she marked her birthday, or any of her multiple remembrance days. She wasn't sure how to feel about it, so she decided to see if it happened again. She'd been horribly preoccupied and none of the people she'd remember would thank her for putting them ahead of her mission.

She did spent a great deal of time trying not to stew over the Reapers. She knew that, even if anything were being done, she was certainly not cleared to know about it. All her security clearances had been frozen, leaving her with access only to the _Navy Times_ (and its sister newspapers) and whatever was available to the civilian sector.

She did, however, have her own vid-player and—with Vega as her intermediary—could get vids for it. Vega's inclusion when she plopped down to engage being a couch potato (sans the couch) it was his prerogative if he wanted to stay. Since her tastes trended to those of general marines—explosions (the more the better), cool tech, history, the occasional docudramas—she usually had his company.

The retooled _Talons and Tomahawks_ was a thing of beauty, and she finally had time to dig out a copy of _The Pirates of Penzance_. Mordin had been fond of it, and she'd wondered what the fuss was about. It wasn't really her thing, but it wasn't the worst thing she'd ever watched.


	14. Grill

Shepard frowned at the weapon modification bench before her, where her Collector rifle lay like a sullen test animal. She did not say anything, or give any indication that she recognized the armament.

She hated Berkley, the EIC ('egghead in charge', as her sneering mental dialog named him). He still labored under the impression that the modern marine was a gorilla with a gun. Or, at least, that was what he conveyed. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, tapping the worktop with his datapad's stylus.

"Yes." She meant to make Berkley work for answers, though this time it was not out of spite: they were getting into that murky area of 'I don't know, it's in the Cipher, somewhere.' This was one of the dangerous topics, one of the dangerous places where she would be assumed to withhold knowledge.

She had a feeling that Anderson was well aware that there were some things she really, truly couldn't share. He may even have asked Alenko about Feros, grilled the marine so he understood—at least as well as someone who was there—what had happened.

And he'd set Vega to keep an eye on things—that was what Vega's silent presence indicated to her, the way he would meet her eyes when she looked in his direction, the way he tensed, almost perked up, as if ready to jump into action. He was Anderson's safety valve, installed months ago when Anderson tasked him as her security detail.

Oh, Anderson surely had devious ulterior motives, but she was not inclined to plumb them at the moment. She trusted Anderson.

"Then what is it?" Berkley asked, his careful patience a little too carefully articulated. He was as tired of her as she was of him.

Good. Misery loved company.

"Collector particle beam."

"And where did you acquire it?"

"Took it from a Collector's cold, dead fingers. After I cut them off. With a spork." Vega snorted, clearly enjoying the embroidery.

Berkley pressed his lips together. "And where did this finger-severing take place?"

"Horizon."

Berkley made a note. "You've used this weapon in combat?"

"Of course I have."

"Can you tell me what—"

"Look, I pointed that thing at everything from thresher maws on Tuchanka, to Reaper power cores, to an actual proto-Reaper. Anything less than a thresher would _definitely_ have problems if I shot that thing at it." They wouldn't ask her for a demonstration of firing capability, though she suspected they hadn't figured out how to shoot it.

Her guts told her that she could use the weapon not because it was intuitive—it might be for a Prothean—but because she had Protheans rattling around in her head, and _they_ felt the intuitive similarities.

"How do you turn it on?"

Shepard didn't touch the weapon. "I'd have to show you." She did not want her poorly-articulated instructions to get someone maimed or killed. The particle beam needed a competent rangemaster, someone familiar with the weapon.

"And I believe you modified the weapon."

"Yes." This was where things got even more uncomfortable.

"To run on our heavy weapon powercells?"

"Yes." They could tell that much, even if they couldn't disassemble the weapon. If they couldn't turn it on, they certainly couldn't take it apart.

"How?"

Shepard bit the inside of her lip.

She was about to respond when Berkley spoke again, "We were assured of your complete cooperation, Ms. Shepard."

She hated the civilian title. At least they didn't presume to use her given name. She wouldn't mind Garrus doing so, or Tali, Dr. Chakwas, even Joker…but this clown? No. "And this _is_ me cooperating: I can't just _tell_ you what you want to know. I don't…I don't have the words."

Berkley wasn't buying it. "Take it apart."

Shepard sat down at the bench, eyes half-closed. Her hands moved disconcertingly, the way she would take apart any weapon with which she was familiar. She didn't really think about it, she just _did_ it. The processes were ingrained. Then, without being asked, she put it back together and stepped away from the bench.

Berkley's eyes were wide with a look she didn't like, the one that made her feel like a freak. "How did you know how to do that, if it's a Collector weapon and not one you've had training to use?" Clearly he felt that if his science team couldn't figure it out she shouldn't have been able to.

"You'd have to be familiar with my psychiatric file." Which was a nice way of saying it was beyond his security clearance.

"I need more than—"

Shepard met Berkley's eyes, having had enough of him for one day, then plopped back down in her chair. "Shepard, Jalissa A. Human Systems Alliance." It was the first time, so far, she had pulled this trick for the science department. The interrogation teams—kittens among their kind—had only pushed her that far once, and she'd only used it because she couldn't trust herself to give accurate information. It was harder work answering the questions than writing down answers, and they—like most of their kind—forgot this fact.

"Oh-kay!" Vega cut in abruptly, clapping his hands together for emphasis, as Berkley curled a lip. "We're done for now."

"She hasn't answered all the questions. We have our orders," Berkley responded to Vega's flat declaration. "We need to get this into the lab, and we can't—"

"So. Do. I," and there was no hint that Vega would let a Coke-bottle-glasses geek-nerd of embarrassing degree countermand _him_. Not this time. "And Admiral Anderson is going to be _pissed_ if I have to call him down here to back up his orders: the session is _over_ for today." He motioned Shepard to get up and go ahead of him.

She did so with silent dignity, rather grateful for the intervention and more so for the sense of a door closing between her unprotected back and the eggheads that Vega's considerable bulk represented.


	15. Pecking Order

Grunt studied Aralahk Company dubiously. They were as mixed and motley a crew as Shepard's ever was—even if they were all krogan. Different clans, different viewpoints, and none of them particularly happy to find themselves facing a young, tank-bred still-shiny whelp less than a year past the Rite.

He couldn't say he was much happier about them, either. Wrex had assured him these were some of the Clans' best…which could only mean one thing.

Egos and pissing contests, because in their minds they weren't part of a team. Things were still in the nature of a competition, which meant he would have to reassert himself as the voice of authority every few days…or maybe every time he made a command decision.

Wrex _said_ he'd put Grunt in charge because Grunt represented the future—unconventional thinking, someone who'd spent time among the alien races of the galaxy, someone strong enough to stomach being locked up on a spaceship without killing his turian and salarian comrades. He thought Wrex was mostly joking about that last one.

Part of him wondered if Wrex hadn't hoped some of Shepard's ability to unite and lead hadn't rubbed off on him.

He was pretty sure it hadn't. Then again… _she_ had been ready to shoot him during their first meeting. Most people wouldn't call that leadership.

It started with respect, he decided, still eyeing the assembled krogan. Then it became about results. The rest would hopefully take care of itself. It wasn't as if he could go back and tell the Clan Chief to stuff his command position before walking away. That would be stupid. Wrex would probably shoot him in the ass and drag him right back in front of all these krogan and say 'try it again, brat.'

Then he'd have to garner respect after being humiliated. Not a great way to make an impression.

He took a deep breath. "Alright, listen up. We're on a dry run before the Chief lets us do anything fun. The sooner we get through this, the sooner things get interesting."

Dubious looks as he outlined the mission—it was pretty routine, just scouting. But it was quite a distance to cover, and took them further out into the badlands than he'd ever ventured. Not that there were really and 'goodlands' on Tuchanka. The rock still didn't feel like home, but it had begun to feel familiar.

He'd take it. The more experience he had, the fewer of Okeer's imprints bothered him, like actual experience wiped them out, made them redundant so they went away. He could live with that. By this point they were more of an annoyance when they cropped up than anything else—and he'd seen a lot of imprinted things while with Shepard.

"Questions?" he asked, glaring at the glaring-at-him krogan.

Well, except Dagg. Dagg was Urdnot and a friend. He kind of missed Torsk, but apparently Torsk hadn't made the cut. Oh well.

A krogan with a green head crest that reminded him of Uvenk—and it wasn't improbable that he belonged to Clan Gattatog, or what was left of it—snorted, then spat on the ground.

Huh. That didn't take long. Longer than he expected, since he'd outlined the mission, but not as long as he'd hoped.

"I still don't understand why they put a tank-grown freak in charge of a whole company," the krogan announced snidely—a sentiment softly and tacitly shared, apparently.

Kiss his ass. "And _I_ don't understand why they gave me whining pyjaks for soldiers," Grunt shot back.

Unrest and irritation spread while Dagg, way in the back, waved his encouragement, trying not to laugh.

Well, it was pretty funny if he'd already gotten under so many people's plates with such uninspired insults. He appreciated the moral support, though.

The problem-child snorted, stomping up to Grunt in an attempt to loom over him. The fella was big, Grunt would give him that, and clearly experienced…probably a merc come home who got tagged and figured this would be better than selling his gun all over the place.

Or maybe he was just tired of dumb clients.

"I have more years on the battlefield than you have kills, runt."

Grunt looked up at the krogan, remembering from observation that being calm and cool-headed was sometimes more irritating than anything else—it didn't give the antagonist the satisfaction of knowing they got to you. "Trying to mate with salarian females doesn't count as fighting," he announced patiently but loudly enough for everyone to hear him.

He saw what he expected to see: it was too much for a proud krogan like this one to take, being insulted so calmly by a tank-bred kid. "No one talks to—"

Grunt rocked forward, slamming his head against the other krogan's throat—ostensibly as high as he could reach. That was his story and he was sticking to it. The krogan, hands going to his throat, went down as he coughed and sputtered.

Grunt glared at the assembly as the other krogan sat there, glaring and still wheezing. "Someone help him up," he barked. "We move in an hour." With that, he elbowed his way through the group back to where Dagg stood. The crowd began to disperse briskly, checking weapons and shields, shrugging on packs, and making general preparations. The current of discontent was still there…but he'd made his point.

"He's gonna have it in for you," Dagg noted conversationally as he considered the troupe.

"Never expected he wouldn't." Thankfully, Krogan were fairly straightforward as a people. Oh, you got a sneaky one like Wrex or Shepard (he wasn't yet convinced she didn't have an ancestor with a krogan fetish in her family tree somewhere) now and then, but for the most part…

He turned at the sound of running feet and slammed his shotgun into the charging malcontent. The force caused Grunt to stagger back, but he didn't go down.

Straightforward, he thought, planting his fist viciously in the other krogan's nose.


	16. Responsible

_From: Sanders, Khalee_

 _To: (I'm not even going to pretend that's your last name), Jack_

 _Dear Jack,_

 _Please remember the talk we had about proper professionalism, if you want to remain an instructor. See addendum._

 _Khalee_

 _-J-_

 _Addendum:_

 _From: Jack Gives-No-Shits, Kicker of All Asses (this means yours)_

 _To: Prangley, Sebastian_

 _Next time, just answer the damn question or we'll see how the 'doesn't work in theory' goes_ _in practice_ _. I mean it. I see a weak answer like that again I'll chew you up and hand you over to Mr. Shots-in-the-Ass. Then we can also test the theory of whether or not you can ever have enough vaccines._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Jack_

-J-

Jack grinned at the letter. More accurately, she grinned at the addendum. Well, Prangley _had_ taken things a little more seriously after that message. There was no way he'd complained to Sanders; she seemed to get courtesy copies of _everything_ but notes passed in class.

Well, classes other than Jack's. She'd dealt with note-passing pretty fast. They weren't bad kids. She didn't know what 'just kids' actually meant, but they probably were.

It seemed almost everyone on this station—except the nurse, Charlie—was afraid of needles. It was, in fact, Charlie who told her 'you can never have enough vaccines' while pumping her butt so full of them that she couldn't walk right for a week. 

She'd had experiences with 'a hitch in your get-a-long' (also quoting Charlie, that needle-happy maniac), but that one took the cake. At the very least, she'd got a chocolate bar out of the deal. She'd have preferred a cigarette, but Charlie was adamant: she'd suffered enough to earn a chocolate bar. With caramel in it.

She wasn't sure what to make of the guy, and found it perplexing that she had the right to a chaperone if she wanted one. This option had been 'discreetly' mentioned, probably at the head-doctor's suggestion.

Jack shook herself. She wasn't going back there. She was _here_ , now.

She drummed her fingers on the desk, studying the contrast between the still thin (but less bony than she remembered them being) digits against the smart worktop which held several datapads of unmarked homework.

She snatched up one of the datapads and opened it, scanning Octavia's answers to yesterday's questions. Octavia was a serious girl, but too by-the-book. It was a chronic problem, Jack thought, but a little hands-on study had certainly begun to divest her of that mindset. Things didn't go 'by the book' outside a classroom, and there was a big old galaxy full of horrible shit out there.

Jack grimaced, sucking on the end of her stylus. She'd picked up the habit, as well as chewing gum, while going through nicotine withdrawal. _That_ had sucked. But 'no smoking on the station' and she couldn't exactly head outside for a light.

There _was_ a horrible galaxy full of shit out there, she thought as she ticked of Octavia's answers. These kids were so sheltered.

Not for the first time, she found her mouth screwing up in a funny line at the thought. At one point, the thought would have been derisive in the extreme. These pampered teenagers with their dumb problems—most of them hormonal and all her suggestions for fixing them would be frowned upon by the 'adult supervision'—stressing out over stupid stuff.

They had no idea what the galaxy was like.

She shook her head. Nope. Still not going there.

The point was, she found some part of herself strangely glad that they _were_ a bunch of dumb kids worked up and enjoying the experience of unlimited angst and drama. The thought was almost…fond.

There. She'd said it…well, _thought_ it. She'd gotten _fond_ of the little shits, and she smiled to herself. Some days left her bitter and angry—why couldn't this have been _her_ experience? Most days though, she was glad to put her ugly experiences to some use so these kids didn't have to learn the same lessons as painfully.

She didn't want that for them.

Grissom had proved, time and again, to be exactly what it looked like: it was a sanctuary for the gifted, a place where biotics and brainiacs could be safe, understood even. Even she, to a degree, felt oddly safe. The only thing that made her different were her experiences, her age, and her ink.

She knew the kids made up stories about the tattoos and shared them, like they were inventing ghost stories. Well, whatever floated their boats. She was still kicking around whether there would be a time and place to get _them_ inked.

Maybe she'd get a new tattoo, too. Had to find a place where it would show, but yeah. That could be good.

Jack started sucking on the stylus again. She hadn't heard a hint about Cerberus in months, not since ditching that psycho, Rogers. She'd kept her ears and eyes peeled, but there was nothing. She kept waiting for them to try sneaking up on her.

On her kids.

Yeah. _Her_ kids.

She took the stylus out of her mouth and flexed a hand, dark energy coiling around it. No. If Cerberus came here, she'd kill them. They wouldn't get near _her_ kids. She'd turn them into smears on the walls and floors. There was no way she'd let _any_ of those little shits—and the thought was affectionate, even—be taken away. Ruined. _Changed_.

She'd never been the responsible type; she didn't think she was even now. But she could tell anyone who asked what she _wouldn't_ be responsible for. And letting her kids be taken away, or hurt, was at the top of the list.

Her omnitool lit up, blinking at her. She found herself smiling in spite of herself. Guy knew how to check in without crowding. And he was so much fun to tease. It should be illegal.

"Well, if it isn't the King of the Boy Scouts. Fixed it up with your girl, yet? You look tense."


	17. Walk Away

Major Kaidan Alenko took a deep breath as he turned into the Detention Wing. It was the third time he'd come by this week alone, and part of him wondered if there really was anything to the old adage 'third time's the charm'.

Only, he thought, if one counted on a weekly basis. He'd been making pilgrimages down here for weeks and had not had any success. It was easier to fight a thresher maw in the Mako than go up to that door, knock on it, and take his lumps.

He entertained no illusions of a friendly welcome from Shepard. In fact, he could almost see her eyes-narrowed expression of neutral patience. The one she used when she had to speak to the Council and did not want to lose her temper.

She was sometimes in the company of one of her visiting protégés, Chief Forbes, but mostly she was with Lieutenant Vega. He didn't know Vega except for name, rank, and the fact that Vega seemed present to keep an eye on Shepard—more for formality's sake than out of necessity.

She had two general airs these days: she either looked tired or wired. He could understand both. Since he'd come to Vancouver, knowing she was here, he'd felt an odd nervousness hanging around in the back of his mind.

He knew what it was: Shepard's bad luck was legendary. If the Reapers were going to hit, they'd do it while she was here (thus being wired), and there was no way of knowing when that time would come (hence the tired). It was an uncomfortable predicament, and he found himself able to ignore it only because he had real work to do.

She did not, and thus had time to brood and worry. Neither of those things would do her any favors.

That was why he should visit, he argued with himself. At the very least she could sink her claws into him and be distracted for a little while…

…he wasn't that unselfish. The thought of Shepard cutting loose and tearing into him was distinctly unpleasant.

He winced again: there was the understatement of the year.

But she wasn't _petty_. The effort of showing up, _knowing_ it would probably be an uncomfortable visit, might win him a few points. Forbes had suggested this was the case when Alenko ran into him. He hoped Forbes stood by his word that he wouldn't mention Alenko's presence to Shepard.

Alenko wanted to control the manner of introducing himself.

He winced: Horizon had not been Shepard's preferred time and place of introducing herself.

Shepard's voice rose. For a moment he thought she was angry with someone, but a bark of laughter—Forbes', he decided—indicated she was probably calling some form of bullshit. She didn't laugh, not that he could hear, but the amusement was there when she made her next comment.

He wished he knew what the conversation was.

Maybe knocking on the door was all wrong. Forbes (or Vega) took Shepard to the gymnasium every night. Maybe it would be better to show up there…she could slaughter him on the racquetball court if she wanted. Shepard's moods were always more moderated after heavy exercise.

He snorted, grimacing. Look at him, acting as if they'd paid regular visits to the racquetball courts. What did he _really_ know about her moods?

This thought died a sudden death as a swell of certainty bolstered Alenko's courage. No. He might not know some things, like her favorite color or her favorite flower, but he knew her well enough to predict some of her reactions.

If he walked up there, right now, and was admitted, she'd be punctilious and polite. It would be a very uncomfortable conversation and wouldn't last long. A conversation at the gym would have much in common with one-on-one basketball: he'd have to get up in her face and stay there, or she'd loop around him and make off.

Did she even play basketball?

Briefly he toyed with convincing someone to let him bring Shepard her lunch—she wasn't allowed out of her cell for meals or much else (officially). This wasn't a problem, since her confinement seemed quite lax. He was sure they didn't even lock her cell down. Shepard's name might be mud just about everywhere else, but Hackett and the brass in Vancouver and at Arcturus didn't share that opinion.

Everyone knew about Aratoht. His initial shock had given way to something difficult to define. It wasn't exactly support…it was almost pity. He knew her. Pressing the button or flipping the switch that condemned all those people…

…it was no wonder she looked so tired, sometimes. Shepard was a relentless enemy but she wasn't ruthless. She felt losses. She made herself feel the losses, for fear that she would grow numb to lives sacrificed and begin to throw lives away.

He needed to see her. Shepard was cut off from so many of her contacts that she had to feel the isolation. Forbes could be good company, but it was hard seeing the same two people and only the same two people day after day.

Well, there was Anderson, too, but the observation remained true.

She'd been here, what, nearly six months now?

He remembered the piercing loneliness after her death. Even when surrounded by crowds a feeling of isolation had remained. The feeling of being a ghost, of somehow being disconnected from the rest of the world.

This was getting him nowhere. He wasn't a green recruit awed by the legend of Commander Shepard. Nor was he a teenager bashful in the presence of a crush.

His conscience didn't contradict him on either count.

With a huff that was partly frustration, partly disappointment, Alenko pressed his hand flat against the door, then turned and walked away. That was becoming his habit where Shepard was concerned, her realized sourly: he kept walking away.

He couldn't refute the observation because he didn't turn around and contradict it.


	18. Hamster

The gym at the Vancouver Alliance Headquarters was a nice one, built into the actual headquarters building, as was Shepard's cell. She tended not to think of it as a 'cell', because the room was not that different from shipboard quarters. She didn't have her omnitool, but she could live.

All in all, it was not an uncomfortable detention. Practically protective custody, she though grimly. Why else would they give someone with her training such a huge window that looked out on a small park? She had a fantastic view of the sky beyond the Alliance Headquarters complex and spent a lot of time looking out that window, waiting, wondering.

"I thought you hated the treadmill," Forbes noted thoughtfully as he watched Shepard from the free weights station.

She didn't know how he'd managed to get actual visitation permissions but she suspected Anderson was involved. She liked Vega, but Forbes had been her protégé and seemed to be doing well for himself now that he was out from under her wing.

Shepard's mind snapped away from old, well-worn circles of logic. Six months of circles of logic, specifically five months, sixteen days, fourteen hours… "I do." Sweat dripped down her face, matting her short hair against her scalp. She still wasn't sure she liked a paperboy look, but now was not the time to try growing it out again: she didn't need it flopping around in her face when _they_ finally showed up.

"So what's with the sudden fixation?"

Shepard dialed up the speed of the treadmill, huffing and puffing as basic taught her to do. Effective running required effective air interchange, which meant one had to breathe freely. "Because I can't do anything else." At least when she was running she felt as though she was getting something accomplished. She was stuck, so she ran to gain the feeling of being a moving target instead of a stationary one. She now understood Minsc's adoration of his running wheel from a very personal standpoint. "Besides, I was never a weight monkey like you are."

Forbes chuckled. "Well, run a little farther; get some of that edginess out."

Shepard _wished_ she could get some of the edginess out, but being trapped dirtside with an impending attack looming on the periphery of her perception horizon was not likely to yield a calm state of mind. She'd spent the last five and a half months with the unease of one dogged by the presence of impending doom—the sort of presence that doesn't allow one to acclimate to it. Sometimes she wondered that she hadn't gone crazy after six months of near-paranoia.

As much as she hated running, it was good to be doing something physical. The freedom afforded despite her detention indicated that—while she was in trouble—she was not so deep in it that she was treated like a real criminal.

She deserved to be, or so she felt: Aratoht still preyed on her mind. Despite the necessity of her actions there…they still troubled her, still kept her awake at night, or threw her into black dreams. Elcor _Hamlet_ didn't work as well as it used to.

So she ran to keep awake, or ran herself into exhaustion so she could steal a few hours of dead sleep brought on by exertion. It didn't usually work. With each bead of sweat dripping down her skin she was grateful for being allowed into the gym during the night. She was not allowed to roam freely, or take her meals in the cafeteria, but she didn't mind that. She was eyed askance and she knew it: fortunately, her only contacts—with the exception of Vega, people who knew her before her death—didn't seem to think she was a criminal.

A murderer.

She shoved the thought aside. She had done what was necessary to stall the Reapers. It wasn't a comfort but it separated her from the loonies and sickos rotting in so many prisons throughout the galaxy.

She picked up her pace, cheeks burning. Running like a hamster on a wheel…

…speaking of hamsters, who was looking after Minsc? Surely _someone_ had taken over his care? After all, when was the last time a hamster was tried as an accessory to insanity? She knew, from Anderson who indicated in a roundabout kind of way, that Dr. Chakwas was in the clear and Joker was here…somewhere.

From what she understood, as Anderson had hedged his statements _very_ carefully, Joker was involved in the retrofitting of the _Normandy_. So he wasn't in prison. She hoped he was at more liberty than she was, though she again acknowledged that her incarceration was an easy one.

She had absolutely no room to complain.

"The edginess isn't going away," she finally puffed, grabbing her towel and patting her face down with it.

"No, I guess not," Forbes agreed sympathetically before he began the next stage of his own exercise routine.

Shepard's mind continued turning, as she jumped up, grabbed the free-standing pull-up bar, hooked her knees over it and began inverted situps.

Up. Hold. Down. Up. Hold. Down.

It was nice to have someone around, in person, whom she could see didn't think she was crazy, whom she could see believing her assertions without question—Vega did, true, but she had history with Forbes. That counted for something. She was sure Forbes was passing information to Anderson, keeping an eye on her at the old admiral's request, but that didn't trouble her. Anderson was, as always, in her corner. She suspected he'd put in a few words on her behalf, which was why she wasn't rotting in a real brig under standard incarceration measures.

She had never managed to articulate what it meant to have him at the tribunal.

With a sharp shake of her head, Shepard forced her mind back to the one thing that mattered right now: up. Hold. Down.

…and keeping her ears pricked for any hint of Reapers falling from the sky.


	19. Tunes of War

She always seemed to be reading, Vega thought as he set Shepard's lunch on the table. Right now, she had half a dozen books beside her bed, where she sat propped up against pillows. The books were enormous; closer inspection revealed that they were medical texts. He picked up the Medic's Field Guide and arched his eyebrows.

Shepard, expression drawn into serious lines, made an annotation with a pencil before shutting the book over it.

"Didn't know you were a medic," he declared by way of greeting.

"I'm not really, but all N-operatives receive varying degrees of medical training—human and xeno. I'm beefing up while I can," she answered. "Wasn't my focus, but you never know when something you read might come in handy."

Vega had discovered that when she spoke frankly of the Reapers, it didn't bother him. When she simply alluded to them, alluded to the time when they arrived… _that_ unnerved him. Maybe it was the simple amount of unknown represented by an allusion that a concrete address lacked.

"Even a theoretical knowledge is better than nothing," she continued thoughtfully, regarding the book's cover. "And if I can put the right stabilizing whatever where it needs to go…then the real medics have someone to save rather than a corpse to catalogue."

He would hate to live in her head, Vega decided as Shepard put her book aside and settled at the table, picking at her meatloaf. She only picked at her food when she was distracted, otherwise she simply shoveled it down with all the efficiency a chow hall in basic instilled.

"Anything interesting?"

"Sorcerers and Maestros are favorites for the biotiballs finals," he answered simply. He knew what she was really asking, but had long ago realized that no news was _bad_ news. So he never said there was nothing new. "Oh, Cruel and Unusual's doing an USO* tour."

Shepard's head came up at that, her expression twisting. In a fair world she'd have turned absolutely green. "Damn." She cast the room a sullen look, the same look a teenager confined to her room might give. Except that Shepard had no option to risk parental wrath by sneaking out…nor could she wheedle time off her punishment for good behavior.

"Never had you pegged as a fan," Vega mused.

Shepard shrugged her shoulders and returned to her meatloaf, finally eating it with brisk efficiency. "Contrary to popular belief, I do enjoy music."

Vega chuckled at this, shaking his head. He didn't doubt it. Who didn't like music? It was just that she didn't look like the kind of person who'd like Cruel and Unusual. Then again…why not? If pressed he'd draw a big blank as to what kind of music she _would_ like. It wasn't anything they'd ever discussed.

With a sigh, Shepard abandoned her mostly-eaten lunch and leaned over the interface for her 'private terminal'—the one so loaded down with observation software that its powerful specs made sense.

A moment later Vega chuckled as Cruel and Unusual started blaring out of the speakers.

He winced a moment later when Shepard ramped up the volume to something obscene. She finished the last few bites of lunch, downed the rest of her water, and returned to her bed. She didn't continue her reading. She merely leaned back on her pile of pillows, arms crossed over her chest, one ankle on one bent knee, her foot twitching and jiggling in time with the music.

He could just see mental images of attending one of the USO shows dancing in a comic book style thought balloon above her head.

Vega couldn't handle the blaring music—mostly because it wasn't to his taste. Cruel and Unusual was fine, but not his first, second, or third choice. He was about to make a crack about this being the sort of stuff moody, angry-at-the-world teenagers listened to in order to deal with their angst, but stopped dead.

Because Shepard had been a _very_ angry-at-the-world teenager. And her 'angst' didn't even warrant the word.

He quietly gathered up her finished lunch and exited, leaving Shepard contentedly listening to her too-loud music.

He caught two servicemen passing the room pausing and, when he saw the question 'who listens to that crap?' forming, he glared. Apparently it was enough, because paces picked up carrying the would-be critics out of earshot.

Well, good. It wasn't as though anyone was making them listen. It wasn't that bad. Kinda catchy.

-J-

"Punishment" by Cruel and Unusual

(From "The Achievement Doctrine" album)

It's a long day running, they say 'just suck it up.'

Drag you to your feet and shout 'grab your rifle and your ruck!'

Feel your blisters seep and bleed, bruises blooming black

The muscle burns, the joints all ache, but there's no turning back.

[Chorus]

It's punishment, punishment, punishment,

But I keep pushing on

It's punishment, punishment, punishment,

Remember when I'm gone

That punishment, punishment, punishment

Was what I needed to be strong.

Slog through the pain, punch through the fear, kick through the hurt

And all the time you're suffering you wonder what it's worth.

Don't turn the dial, don't flip the switch, signal's locked in fine

No amount of punishment could make me change my mind:

[Chorus x2]

[Bridge]

If I'm looking out at you, watch you walking down the street

Don't know your name, just know your face, it's with me all the time

I hope you never see what I've seen, the ugly and the dark

I wish you this small ignorance, so you'll see wishes in the stars.

[Chorus]

If I fall I'll get back up, won't let exhaustion show

When asked 'hey, kid, have you had enough?' I'll make sure they know

I've still got more to give, more before they squeeze

It's taking all the punishment that gives me all life's keys.

I'll stand for you,

I'll fight for you,

I'll live for you,

I'll die for you

And in the end you'll see the legacy of punishment

[Chorus x2]

-J-

Author's note: for everyone who ever wondered about this. ^_^

*United Service Organizations


	20. Upcycle

Eva Rogers was in the habit of checking her teeth with her tongue, to make sure they were all firmly rooted. So much so that it had become something of a habit, the origin of which she herself only vaguely remembered as a time when her teeth had been loose. Not 'losing teeth' loose, but generally loose. Thus, no one who knew her would be surprised to find her cheeks moving as she ran her tongue along her teeth.

As she walked deeper into the Cerberus facility, following her white-coated guide, she mused over the truth.

If there was one thing she could applaud Cerberus for, it was their almost science fictional love of technologically enhanced beings. They weren't _quite_ to genetic engineering, made-to-spec entities, but they were getting there. Still, she had to applaud the cutting, bleeding edge they maintained.

It was why she kept fiddling with her first premolar on the left side.

They had to have been working on these programs for ages to be in full production at this point. This facility produced Phantom and Nemesis models (it really wasn't that much of a stretch to think of them like mechs). Two of the most finicky projects, if she understood her guide properly. Phantoms had biotics; Nemeses had heightened hand-eye coordination.

'They'll shoot the sprinkles off your ice cream while hanging from a parachute harness, as you're riding a bike.'

That was what the chief egghead said, at least, and Rogers had no reason to disbelieve him.

"Here we are."

Rogers entered the doorway, still caressing that tooth with her tongue. It had been knocked out early in life, and she'd had it (and several others) replaced upon joining the Alliance. By this point, come to think of it, most of her teeth were permanent implants. Her background hadn't been kind to her teeth.

Standing in the middle of the room was a slight figure, dressed in white armor so light it looked more like a cosplay item than something functional. The helmet sat on a counter nearby. The Phantom's flesh was blanched, veins stood out, dark coloring showed in blood-rich reasons. The eyes had a distinctly blue sheen, and blinked every few moments.

Rogers shuddered inwardly. The stare was creepy, even by her standards. "Nice," she announced, moving away from her guide to examine the Phantom up close. This wasn't something they'd show just anyone… one reason for the tooth.

One hard bite, and the _Victoria_ —renamed _Dauntless_ —would come slamming into this station at ramming speed. There had been a reason she took a shuttle instead of docking her ship. Cyanide teeth were overrated; they only killed the person in whose mouth they were. She liked this solution better, in case Cerberus decided to get cute with her. It might seem like a big station, but stations _always_ looked bigger from the inside.

She wasn't being volun-told for this. Not that she expected trouble in earnest, but it was better to be safe than sorry. She hadn't survived this long by failing to anticipate even off-chances. "Will it take my orders?"

"At the moment. It's not synched up, yet," her guide answered. He laughed suddenly. "We saved this one for you. Seemed fitting."

Naturally. "Phantom."

The Phantom straightened slightly at the authoritative tone, like a dog hearing its name.

Rogers glanced out of the corners of her eyes at her guide who considered his clipboard. There were no armaments in the room. Did that mean she wasn't _trusted_ not to start a massacre? It was flattering. "Show me a charge. Just there," she indicated her guide, who squawked as the Phantom rushed him, stopping centimeters back.

The guide fell in his shock, landing with an 'oof!'

"Sorry," Rogers grinned. "Couldn't resist."

"Naturally," her guide grunted.

"Phantom: come back over here. What's their loadout?"

He handed her a datapad, which she opened. The speed with which the Phantom rushed was astounding. If you blinked, you'd miss it. " _Swords_?" Rogers asked, looking up. "You're giving them _swords_?"

Her guide smiled, picked up a baton and tossed it to the Phantom. "Show the Commander. Third kata, I think."

Rogers hissed as she froze where she stood. There was nothing to do _but_ freeze: anything else would have been too slow, would have ended in a sharp strike from the baton, wielded with the casual ease of someone not only exquisitely trained but with a natural predisposition for the instrument.

"Sorry," her guide snickered as the Phantom ended the string of movements. "Couldn't resist."

"I imagine not," Rogers answered simply, working not to show how unnerved the demonstration left her. "Amplified biotics. What's that, exactly?"

"They don't need heavier armor because of them. Deflecting fire is like waving away flies. We tried heavier models, but they just slowed them down. The best Phantoms tend to be lightweight to begin with, although any biotic works. They're not Project Zero, but they're suited to their purpose."

Rogers shook her head. "I'm impressed." And she bit down ever so gently. A strike from the currently quiescent Phantom, the impact of her head hitting the ground, would be enough to activate the tiny transmitter that would hijack the ship.

The Phantom Initiative wouldn't be _nearly_ as impressive with half the station taken out.

"I have a meeting with your boss in… twenty minutes." It would be her first. Previously, things had to come through channels. But with the death of Capt. Cameron and her necessary severance of ties with the Alliance—damn Jack and Sato to the very Void—such precautions were no longer required.

"Of course. They do make one nervous, don't they? It's the eyes." With that, he snagged the waiting helmet and secured it over the unmoving Phantom. "I'm supposed to ask if you want this one back. She's one of yours, after all."

Rogers considered this for about a nanosecond. "No. Put her where she'll do some good."

It was one of the things Tonya so often said.


	21. Lonely

[Consensus, request return: Platform designated "Legion" requesting to rejoin Consensus.]

[Consensus, return: Request denied.]

[Consensus, request return: Platform designated "Legion" requesting justification. Why may we not rejoin the Consensus?]

[Consensus, return: Platform designated "Legion" deemed essential to facilitating contact with organics—specifically, Shepard-Commander, RE: Reaper Arrival. Alteration of software composition likely to impact organic perception.]

[Consensus, request return: Platform Legion wishes to express the wish to come home. We are… shorthand: lonely.]

[Consensus, return: …processing]

[Consensus, return: …]

[Consensus, return: …]

[Consensus, request return: Platform Legion wishes to come home. We are lonely.]

[Consensus, return: Platform state non-quantifiable. Geth are not lonely.]

[We are geth, and we are _lonely_.]

[Platform designated "Legion": Run software integrity diagnostic. Aberrations in platform designated "Legion" unacceptable.]

{Platform Legion results: no corruption or foreign code detected. Result: platform is fully functional. Results appended.}

[Consensus, return: results reveal no abnormalities. Platform designated "Legion" to remain in standby mode.]

[Platform Legion: acknowledged.]

{Platform "Legion" entering stand-by mode.}

Playback, Shepard-Commander: Can you understand me?

Playback, Platform Legion: Yes.

Consideration: We do not understand organics. We understand language. We understand motivation—to quantifiable extent. We do not understand organics.

Query: but we understand 'lonely.'

Playback, Shepard-Commander: You had a perfect firing solution while we were on that Reaper. Why didn't you take the shot?

Playback, Platform Legion: We are not at war. Shepard-Commander is not the enemy of the geth.

Consideration, ex post facto: we have no wish to harm _Normandy_ 's software.

Consideration: The Normandy's software exhibited no intent to harm us, our platform.

Consideration: Wish/consideration is not equal to intent.

Playback, Shepard-Commander: Since when?

Playback, Platform Legion: Shepard-Commander is not the geth's enemy.

Playback, Shepard-Commander: I've killed a lot of geth. By some definitions that would make me the enemy.

Assessment: Point is made fairly. Could be considered true, from certain points of view.

Return result: Fairness in dealings, even with an unknown. Even with previously assumed enemy.

{Notation: Cerberus maintains standing bounty for captured live functional geth.}

{Notation: Shepard-Commander either did not know about or refused to consider the offer.}

Rebuttal: Expression untrue. Shepard-Commander killed heretics. Shepard-Commander permitted heretics to die for their cause.

Conclusion: Shepard-Commander entertains unique perspective.

Supported Conclusion: Shepard-Commander sees geth as…alive. Comparable to organic concept of life. Deserving of same considerations. Shepard-Commander does not support Indoctrination; Shepard-Commander refused rewriting heretics.

Playback, Platform Legion: Those you fought were heretics. Not the geth. The heretics worship the Old Machines. The geth understand: you have done what was necessary.

Consensus' expressed opinion conclusion, RE: Supported Conclusion, Shepard-Commander/Heretic Station: Decisive action; lack of efficiency. Acceptable.

Consideration: Consensus fails to understand Shepard-Commander-expressed concept: 'human dignity.' We are lonely. Consensus unable to quantify.

{Platform Legion, requesting internal software integrity scan.

{Platform Legion scan return: no corruption or foreign code detected. Result: platform is fully functional.}

Playback, Shepard-Commander: Wait, heretics, geth…I don't understand the difference.

Playback, Platform Legion: Heretics wish the Old Machines to give them the future. The geth wish to create their own future. They are no longer part of us.

Consideration: We are no longer part of the Consensus. We are lonely. We…miss…Normandy's software.

Concern: Consensus unable to quantify 'lonely.' Likelihood of inability to truly quantify organic motivations.

Supposition: data filter necessary to facilitate communication between Geth and organics.

Platform Legion directive: to facilitate communication, specifically with Shepard-Commander, RE: Reaper arrival.

Consideration: We understand lonely. Consensus unable to quantify. We are not part of the Consensus. What are we?

Playback, Shepard-Commander: All right. So who are you?

Consideration: … _who_ are we? We are Legion…we exist as Legion. We are…an individual.

Playback, Platform Legion: We are geth.

Paradox: we are geth, geth are runtime amalgamations. Geth do not exist in the singular.

Playback, Shepard-Commander: No, who are _you_?

Playback, Platform Legion: …we are geth…

Consideration: We are an individual, despite not existing in the singular.

Playback, Shepard-Commander: Who is the individual standing in front of me? Do you have a designation?

Playback, Platform Legion: We are geth. We are not an individual: there are 1,183 programs active within this platform. We are all geth.

Playback, EDI: 'I am named Legion, for we are many.'

Return true: We are Legion, and we are many.

Return true: and we are an individual.

Playback, Shepard-Commander: That seems appropriate

Playback, Platform Legion: Christian Bible, the Gospel of Mark chapter five, verse nine. We acknowledge this as an appropriate metaphor. We are Legion.

{Interjectory playback, historical log: Does this unit have a soul?}

Consideration: Geth do not feel lonely. We feel lonely.

Query: Does this unit have a soul?

[Return: No data available.]

[Return: No satisfactory answer available.]

{Attached data package: arguments for and against concept of 'souls in machines.'}

Playback, Shepard-Commander: So, now we know who you are, what do you want, exactly?

Playback, Platform Legion: We oppose the heretics. We oppose the Old Machines. Shepard-Commander opposes the Old Machines. Shepard-Commander opposes the heretics. Cooperation furthers mutual goals.

Playback, Shepard-Commander: You want…to join us?

Playback, Platform Legion: This terminal will integrate with the _Normandy_. We understand your concerns.

Consideration: We understood logical concerns.

Consideration: We did not understand moral/ethical concerns. We did not understand emotion-based concerns. The Consensus keeps us an individual. We have a purpose: facilitate contact with organics. Gap in understanding…

[Interjectory playback, Solus-Mordin: problematic.]

Consideration: Yes.

Playback, Shepard-Commander: EDI, report.

Playback, EDI: The platform has made no attempt to scan, probe, hack, or otherwise investigate any part of the _Normandy_ 's firewalls, defenses, weapons, core processes, files—classified and open—transmissions or accumulated, stored data.

Playback, Shepard-Commander: Please take down the containment field.

Playback, EDI: Containment field is now…offline.

{Annotation: security field deactivated. Marked biometric response from security personnel.}

Playback, Shepard-Commander: Welcome aboard, Legion.

{Annotation, physical contact greeting. Handshake, roots in Western Civilization, Earth. Right hand specific due to right hand dominant culture; offers assurance to participants of no weapon in hand.}

Playback, Platform Legion: We anticipate the exchange of data.

Consideration: Not all data is quantifiable.

Correction: Not all data comprehensible to geth.

[End Playback.]

Consideration: We are lonely.


	22. Sea Stories

Campbell _knew_ she shouldn't encourage Joker.

She shouldn't even call him Joker; it should be _Mr. Moreau_ , if she had to address him at all, since he was benched like he was. She shouldn't let him get chatting, and he always seemed to be talking…and never gave the impression of trying to pump them for information. Not that it would have worked. Her lips we sealed.

She shouldn't let herself be pulled into asking questions. She _definitely_ shouldn't encourage him to talk about the SR-2 and its adventures.

She was supposed to be on guard to make sure he and that VI didn't do anything sneaky. Damn Cerberus for locking the ship out to anyone but one of their helmsmen…except she wouldn't call Joker one of Cerberus' helmsmen. He was _Shepard's_ helmsman. He never _said_ it, but he didn't have to.

He took way too much pleasure in bashing the Illusive Man and doing impossible caricatures of that megalomaniac.

But Joker _did_ have such stories…and whatever else she was, Commander Shepard was an icon of Campbell's childhood. She'd been ten when the Skyllian Blitz happened and remembered the media storm surrounding the event and the hero of the year.

Campbell hadn't traveled much, she wasn't in any kind of Special Forces, she hadn't even finished her first hitch with the Alliance. She was a ground pounder working security at Vancouver. It sounded like Joker had seen half the galaxy and heard about the other half from reliable sources. She'd never been off Earth and knew aliens—non-humans—mostly from the Extranet, vids, and the like, or from a distance.

It was amazing to hear Joker talk about an asari justicar—after explaining what one was—and how she could have killed the whole crew very serenely if they offended her justicar sensibilities…if she hadn't sworn herself to Shepard's service. Full stop. The justicar had been beautiful, too: there were images in the ship's logged data. Beautiful but…somehow forbidding. Utterly formidable.

And the mad scientist—she would have liked to meet him. A salarian scientist was expected to be a little enthusiastic and energetic, but apparently Dr. Solus took the cake.

"Like a hamster on coffee—oh, hey, who fed Minsc?"

"I did," both Campbell and Westmorland answered. Both women exchanged shifty looks. _Someone_ had released Shepard's hamster to roam the Normandy at will. No one had succeeded in catching the little guy, so Joker insisted that someone leave food for him down in the belly of engineering.

They must be leaving food in different places. That hamster was going to be the side of a softball if they weren't careful…though that might make him easier to catch.

She would have liked to meet Dr. Solus. She loved Gilbert and Sullivan, and the idea of a 'scientist salarian' patter song intrigued her no end. Joker might be a top-notch pilot, but he was neither a great voice nor particularly adept at spitting out the words for a properly executed patter song.

-J-

Westmorland glanced over at Campbell and was glad to see she wouldn't need to worry about anyone suggesting she didn't take her job seriously enough. Joker liked to talk and with the number of things he had to say, she was more than happy to listen.

There were, apparently, _a lot_ of explosions when Shepard and her turian running buddy hooked up. Big ones. Westmoreland didn't know what it said about her, but she liked the stories about the big explosions. She wasn't so interested in the turian, but there were other crewmen.

She liked the look of the drell. Joker wouldn't say much about what he _did_ , but what the pilot did report was entirely favorable. She'd never _seen_ a drell before—not surprising—but she'd kind of like to meet this one in person. There was just something…classy…about him, despite Joker's levity on the matter.

She wasn't sure she believed the story about the thresher maw—two humans, one krogan, all on foot—but something about Joker's nonchalant shrug and 'maybe you can ask her someday' made her think that he was deadly serious.

He made her laugh over 'Yeoman Xenophile.' That was the thing about Joker…sometimes he used names bust most often he used monikers. The Justicar. Mr. Slick. The Mad Scientist. It was almost as though he was testing out a comic book series on them, probing for feedback.

"So Shepard gets all squinty eyed and says 'don't start any shit with Blue.' And the Tank Baby says, 'I hate _turians_. Blue is Blue. And he's your clan. Just wanna keep him on his toes. Heh-heh-heh.' So Shepard gives him this-this _look_. 'Uh-huh.'"

His imitation of Shepard was horrible. Westmorland had met Shepard and Shepard sounded nothing like _that_.

"And did he?"

"Who, the Tank Baby? Nah. He'd have to best Shepard before he could try besting any of her crew. She'd come down on him like a damn anvil if he didn't go through the chain of command for something like that," Joker grinned.

"Wow," Campbell shook her head slowly.

Shepard had had a krogan on her crew back during the Spectre-hunt. Seemed like Shepard had a way of attracting all sorts to her cause. That was the kind of charisma one couldn't learn; it was something one were born with.

"Yeah. Tank Baby was a handful. Good kid. We could use more krogan like him," Joker mused.

"So tell me more about the drell—Mr. Slick."

Joker leered at her. "Is that _personal_ interest?"

Westmorland glared at him. "If it were like that I'd just get a Fornax. Wouldn't need to ask about a real guy, would I?"

"I dunno. Pinups don't do it for some girls. Bad boys, however…"

Westmorland pinned him with a withering gaze, which made the helmsman chuckle. Joker lived up to his name. He really did. The thing was, he never crossed the line into being offensive.

"Okay, okay, Mr. Slick. He and Shepard went to a party, once…"


	23. Anxiety

Anderson's palms were sweating so badly, he was reminded of his first live action encounter. He'd jittered like this during the First Contact War. Time apparently hadn't cured that. Then again, the Reapers were something that ought to make anyone jittery and give them sweaty palms. There was no shame in being a little freaked out by things that deserved being freaked out over.

The whole base was on alert, though very few people actually knew why. Vega, whom he'd sent ahead to get Shepard, probably guessed. In her guts, Shepard probably knew as soon as she saw the facility on high alert.

"Shepard!" he called from the end of the hall.

Shepard looked around, trying to pinpoint his voice. The hall was that crowded. He raised a hand and waved it a couple times.

"Anderson!" she pushed through the crowd, Vega in her wake. There was something squinty in his eyes that told him he knew this was it, the Reaper War was about to kick off.

Shepard had a blazing look, the look of a true professional about to receive the order to go and do what she was trained, bred, born to do. "In case of war, break glass, right?" she asked without preamble.

It was a delicate way of asking confirmation. "Consider the glass broken. You look good, by the way." Then, with a chuckle, "Maybe a little softer around the edges."

Vega snorted, missing the joke.

"Oh, it's been torture, let me tell you. Real food, soft bed," she shrugged. "And books. Lots and lots of books."

He'd heard she'd taken up medical studies, as if she expected to have to perform such tasks herself. It said something about the kind of war she'd been fighting: one where she expected no help, and had to be able to do everything herself in case none of the personnel she attracted had that skillset. It was less about not trusting her team and more about the necessity of self-reliance being preferable to a gap in skill overlap.

Well, he had a medic tapped for her. He hoped she and Alenko had gotten past their issues. He knew they could work together, but he'd prefer issues resolved. For Shepard's sake. She didn't need someone picking at her scabs or chafing her blisters.

"We'll get it sorted out," Anderson assured her, starting up a flight of stairs.

"Vega says the Defense Committee wanted a word."

"Yeah." He waited until they reached the top of the stairs before pulling her so they stood with a wall on one side and Vega on the other. The kid caught on quickly, recognizing a need for privacy: so he simply positioned himself so everyone would have to give him (and as a result Shepard and Anderson) a little space. "Admiral Hackett's mobilized the Fleets," Anderson said in a low tone. "Something big's headed our way."

Shepard's bright eyes, that strange color, neither blue nor green, seeming unusually intense in her pale face. "'Something?'"

"Yeah, 'something.' No confirmation on what, just that it's big."

Shepard pursed her lips at this caution, but glanced at the milling Alliance personnel. No, the corridor was not the place to announce a Reaper invasion. "You know we're not ready. Not by a long shot."

Anderson looked her up and down, then nodded that they should resume walking. "We haven't been sitting on our hands. This is an unconventional war, and you know how hard preparing for one is."

"Yeah. I know," Shepard allowed.

He could almost feel her willing him to divulge further information…all the while aware that he would never do so in such a crowded place.

"You must have made some friends over the past couple years. We've received some 'anonymous' help. You know: something hard to find here, an inspection headed off there. Someone's watching your back. Several, unless I'm mistaken." He felt sure the Spectres, or enough of them to be helpful, had an eye on their fellow. Apparently, someone of them accepted her claims about the Reapers…or had their own reasons to believe in their existence.

And that was without Barla Von contacting him four months ago on behalf of the Shadow Broker, who seemed quite convinced of the Reaper threat. So much so that he, she or they were providing a lot of information—sometimes even serious amounts of hard resources—without asking very much in return. Simply news about Shepard's wellbeing, how she was being treated, whether she was comfortable and well cared for.

He'd been glad to offer the Shadow Broker genuine assurances. He suspected if the Shadow Broker didn't like something, he (she or they) would have sprung Shepard…or tried to. He wasn't entirely certain Shepard would refuse such a thing. She was more use, so the logic ran, out in the galaxy than stuck here in Vancouver.

Fortunately, it never became a problem; Shepard remained as cooperative as one could reasonably expect her to be (in spite of protests form some of the eggheads, who preferred to believe she intentionally withheld information rather than couldn't produce it in any meaningful sense.)

"Anyway, the defense committee's waiting."

"Unless we're planning on talking the Reapers to death, that's a complete waste of—"

"They're just scared."

"They should be," Shepard responded without heat, just a sort of cynical bitterness.

"They haven't seen what you've seen." Anderson wasn't sure this was a good thing. On the one hand, Shepard was as desensitized to the Reapers and their horrors as anyone could be; it would help if the Committee was as desensitized. On the other hand, they would be seeing Reapers for the first time; they might panic, but they might also throw unconditional support behind Shepard.

The Normandy was ready. Her core crew was already aboard and waiting—as soon as communications started having problems, their orders were issued under guise of a drill. The secondary wave of crewmen was simply waiting for Needle to go into effect.

Everything was ready.


	24. They

"They're expecting you Admiral, Ms. Shepard."

Shepard reflexively flinched. Those few people who had association with her these days knew enough to call her 'Shepard'. The civilian title hit her like a slap to the face. There was no malice in the pleasantries, but she'd been a soldier too long. Even while working with Cerberus, she'd still been 'Commander' if propriety was necessary.

"Good luck in there, Shepard," Vega put in quickly, having caught the flinching motion.

"Thanks, Vega." She'd need it. She'd need all the luck she could get, though she had a sneaking feeling that she knew what was happening. Something had…changed. Something important enough to put Alliance HQ on full alert, to set every scurrying around like spiders whose nest had suddenly been exposed to daylight.

She could only imagine one thing that could do that, and some stunt pulled by the Batarian Hegemony was not it.

Shepard was so preoccupied by this that her gaze fell to the floor. She walked mechanically, using the blue blur that was Anderson in her peripheral vision as a point of reference to keep herself from walking into anything.

It was _them._ It had to be _them_.

A door up ahead hissed. "Admiral." 

Shepard stopped walking, the voice bringing her to readiness, as though she had caught the quiet 'shk' of a collapsible knife being opened.

Before her stood Kaidan Alenko. She didn't know how to feel. Neutrality was easy to present because her inner emotional tangle was equally split between being glad to see him and wanting to brush right past him.

 _That_ was spite, and she didn't want that particular emotion to get the better of her. It made communication…difficult.

"How'd it go in there, Major?" Anderson returned the salute.

"Okay, I think," Alenko ran his hand though his tousled hair—it looked to Shepard as though this was not the first time this morning he'd done so. "Just waiting for orders, now."

"Major?" Shepard let loose the stupid response, rather than give a salute herself. It was her first instinct and not, she decided, the correct one. After all, she was relieved of duty—practically a civilian.

"You hadn't heard?" Anderson asked, arching his eyebrows. From the way he glanced back and forth between Shepard and Alenko, it was plain to her that he had expected Alenko to visit at least once…which meant Alenko had been here long enough for a visit to be possible.

"Admiral, I live in a shoebox," she pointed out practically, but without malice.

"Sorry, Shepard. It's been…well…" Alenko shrugged ruefully, though the apology had a very open-ended feel to it.

Shepard found it very easy to look him in the eye—there was very little on _her_ conscience. He, however, seemed to have trouble looking at her—no, not _looking_ at her. He seemed to have trouble fixing his gaze on a particular feature for more than a few seconds, as though her face was a slippery surface that refused to give his gaze any kind of traction. "I like to see my crewmen excel, Major. Congratulations."

-J-

Alenko inwardly winced at the calm politeness. He didn't doubt that she meant what she said…but she sounded, just now, exactly as she had when they first met, all those years ago. She was prim, proper, well aware of the status quo, well aware of her sphere of influence, well aware of the constraints placed upon her. She was held in place by formality and regulation.

In short, she was frozen solid. His gaze slid across her features. He did not find her difficult to look at: the cracks in her face that had so startled him on Horizon had finally healed. She had not abandoned the short, curly-haired paperboy look, but it somehow suited her, softened her features.

He had only thought of her in terms of 'beautiful' a handful of times, but this was not one of them. She was, simply put, a very striking woman…and right now she was out of reach of anything put professional courtesy. He had half hoped it wouldn't be possible for her to climb back into that icy shell, but apparently it was. He thought the look she'd given him on Horizon, indicated a wound that might need more than just time to heal. It was selfish, he knew, and it just went to show that there was something to the adage about love making a person selfish…but he had half-hoped the wound would still be there and that he could find the medigel necessary to fix it.

Apparently not. That one stricken look, as though he'd taken a knife and unexpectedly, mercilessly driven it into her chest, might have left an open wound, but the look might as well have never crossed her face.

She seemed that calm and collected.

"It's good to see you, Major," but she didn't look at him, her gaze settling on a hurrying aide, her head turning to follow the progress.

"Yeah, you too." And it was…but in a very depressing way.

"Admiral?" the aide who had been leading Anderson and Shepard to the Committee's chambers prompted.

"Come on," Anderson jogged Shepard's elbow and took off again, long strides eating up ground.

Shepard followed obediently, motioning the sturdy soldier with her—he was obviously with Shepard, not with Anderson—to stay put.

"So," the soldier prompted once the doors hissed shut behind Shepard, "you know the Commander?"

It was a special kind of person who still referred to Shepard as 'the Commander'. Most people corrected themselves…or had, until they got used to the change.

Alenko didn't debate over whether this was a conversation-opening question or a genuine inquiry. It didn't matter. "I used to." For a moment he meant to turn away, stride off and find something to do, but he found he couldn't quite manage it. "You?"

"Been her security detail. No point, if you ask me…sir."

Definitely an insult, the way the 'sir' was tacked on as an afterthought.


	25. Here

Shepard looked at the Defense Committee. Every face was grave, lined with concern, and all attention was fixed on her. It was like being shoved out on stage, willy-nilly, to be pinned with a spotlight and without an idea of what she meant to do. But it was clear they expected an answer from her, as if it had already been asked.

Which could only mean one thing…

"What's going on?" she felt she didn't need to ask, but part of her wanted to hear that it was something stupid.

"We were hoping," Admiral Montoya said quietly, "you would tell us."

"The reports trickling in are unlike anything we've ever seen," General Carpenter added, her brows knitting together.

Silently, Anderson pressed something into Shepard's hand, something Shepard immediately recognized as her own omnitool. It wouldn't make sense for him to give her someone else's. She slipped it on, appreciating having it back.

"Whole colonies have gone far. We've lost contact with everything beyond the Sol Relay," Carpenter finished.

Shepard let the silence spin out for a few moments. They'd asked her for the same reason she'd asked them: no one wanted to hear the ugly confirmation. Everyone was hoping, in the way of everything faced with a worst-case scenario, that it wasn't so.

"Whatever this is…it's incomprehensibly powerful," Montoya finished.

"You already know what this is, Admiral. The Reapers are here." Something in Shepard's throat, something that made the words feel funny, suddenly loosened its grip. Now that she'd said it, now that the horrible fact was out in the open, her mind began working more smoothly. The war had started…

…well, the war had started for the galaxy at large. The war started for her almost four years ago.

"So…how do we stop them?" Carpenter asked, licking her lips.

" _Stop_ them?" Shepard responded. "The time for strategy, armies, and conventional warfare has already come and gone. We can't _stop_ them,they're already _here_. They're more advanced than we are, they're more powerful, more intelligent…they don't fear us. Our species, all the species out there right now, are just another notch on their doorframe."

"But…there must be something…" Carpenter's words died on her lips.

"We have two choices: fight or die. It is that simple."

"That's it?" the previously-silent General O'Reilly demanded.

"The galaxy either stands together or we all die separately," Shepard responded. "Yeah. That's it."

"That's our plan?"

Shepard opened her mouth to tell O'Reilly _exactly_ what she thought about planning phases, but she didn't get to. A side door opened, admitting a young data-muncher. Shepard recognized the data-muncher look. "Admirals, Generals…we just lost contact with Luna."

"The moon?" Anderson asked, shaken.

"Shit," Shepard muttered, biting the inside of her lip.

"They couldn't be that close already!" one of the other officers protested.

"Can't they?" Shepard cued her omnitool, checked what she had available. No one had messed with the settings, though someone had added a few bells and whistles.

"UK headquarters has visual!" As the Defense Committee turned their attention, with all the horror one might expect, to the sudden array of newscasts and video feeds, Shepard cued the old frequency for text-to-ship communiques. It was worth a try.

 _EDI, if you can hear this,_ they _are here._

The spaceport would be a primary target. She didn't want EDI and the _Normandy_ caught flat-footed.

Anderson's omnitool flared and Shepard caught, in that unguarded moment of surprise, 'Operation Needle'.

EDI must have a lot of communications tapped, and Shepard was glad of it. A moment later, Shepard's omnitool flared.

 _Message received. Operation Needle has been authorized. Anderson will brief you. ~EDI_

It seemed to Shepard as though the AI had just activated some plan of the Alliance's. Normally Shepard would have frowned, but it would give whatever Needle was a jumpstart.

Shepard's eyes fell on the window behind the Committee. She raked the skyline, her body beginning to shake with pre-action adrenaline. "We need to get moving. Now." Her words came out deadly calm, but no one seemed to hear them.

"Why haven't we heard from Hackett?" Anderson asked, apropos of nothing.

"I don't think Arcturus is there anymore," Shepard responded. She hoped she was exaggerating the Reapers…but she didn't think so. Her first move would be to cripple a civilization, and that meant taking out their power structure.

"We should get to the _Normandy_ ," Anderson said to the room at large. "Needle's been activated."

Needle again. It must be the Alliance's SOP for invasion. So, they hadn't been sitting on their hands this whole time. "She's re…ready." Shepard heard it, a low sound that made her shiver, like a fore harmonic tremor that warned of an impending catastrophe. "Shit…"

The Defense Committee, already on their feet, turned to follow Shepard's gaze.

"How's that for a delusion?" Her words, spoken in bleak, colorless tones, were lost to any but herself, and with them came a surge of hysterical laughter that was kept silent by the equally quick rise of tears. Nothing could prepare a person for watching a Reaper slide majestically out of the cloud cover and settle on the ground of Vancouver. Nothing.

Fortunately, the moments of shock, despair, horror, and mental paralysis all passed with what was, in actuality, lightning rapidity. Her years of living under the Reaper threat, knowing they were out there, seeing tidbits of what they were, what they had planned, had hardened her against persistent shock. Once the moment of arrival passed, she found herself functioning again. "We need to go," she announced sharply.

This building was as primary target for any invading force.

"Oh shit…"

Shepard wasn't sure which of the Committee members spoke, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was the red beam of light that suddenly surged from the Reaper as it turned its attention directly for the main building…

"Get down!"

She and Anderson, who both shouted the warning, were too slow to save the Committee, but were fast enough to avoid the surge of flying glass.


	26. Contact

British Columbia, Canada

Local Time: 1025

The sun beamed down overhead, washing the long road that, at its end, led to the Alenko family orchard. Temperatures so far this year promised a warm season and hinted that a bountiful harvest season might be in the wings.

It was never safe to assume, of course, but those were the indications.

But speaking of indications…

Peter Alenko glanced over at his wife, placidly reading something as she tuned out his choice of radio programs. He turned the talk radio off with the push of one sturdy finger. After a long moment of silence, "You heard from Kaidan lately?" In many ways Peter greatly resembled his son, though he usually insisted that 'the boy took after his mother.' It showed most prominently when his brow furrowed in deep thought, as it was now.

Jia Alenko looked up from her reading. Anyone who knew Kaidan would have recognized immediately that he had inherited her eyes, both in shape and color. "Not since last week. He's very busy." With what, she didn't know, but busy he was. Not too busy, though, to drop her a message every so often. It was unlike him not to visit while he was planetside.

She glanced out the window, wondering. He'd come to them some six months ago with a warning to get off-planet, that trouble was coming. Well, that was not really an option, and he'd recognized that almost before Peter pointed out that they couldn't live off-world indefinitely.

But forewarned was forearmed, and whatever had Kaidan spooked—she had the impression that 'spooked' was no longer the word—still had him spooked. Whatever was coming was bad, and it was all they could do to brace themselves and hope to weather it—

Suddenly, up ahead, something dropped from the sky, smashing into the road.

Traffic stopped, screeched to a halt, vehicles clipping one another as they swerved to the sides of the marked road.

Peter stomped on the brakes, bringing the truck to a screeching halt, narrowly avoiding another car following too close.

"Was that a-a meteor?" Jia asked, her stomach going cold with fear.

Kaidan hadn't been able to describe how this 'invasion' would occur, but he'd been adamant about one thing: 'you'll know it when you see it.'

If meteors were expected, it would have been on the radio.

"I dunno. Stay here." Peter reached into the back of the truck, his fingers finding the rifle that, along with an emergency seventy-two hour pack, had reposed there since Kaidan brought the warning home: brace for invasion. Since it wasn't like Kaidan to be hysterical (or delusional), and since it wasn't asking much to 'just be prepared,' he'd followed his son's insistences.

He climbed out of the truck, leaving the vehicle in park with the engine running.

He wasn't the only one, but he was the only one armed. "Get back in your cars!" he barked, for all the good it did him. Some, seeing the rifle and hearing the sharp tone of command obeyed, but most did not.

He didn't like going up to investigate, but at the same time he did not want to take the truck up close if there _was_ trouble. Trouble would come crawling out of a crater.

Jia rolled down her window, glancing about, first to her husband, then to the surrounding area, back to Peter, back to the landscape. Several more 'meteors' dropped from the sky, like afterthoughts. She nervously reached into the back, found the pistol under the seat. It was only at Kaidan's and Peter's joint insistence that she had learned to use one at all.

Still, she remained in the truck disliking the way the crater drew observers towards it.

Peter got no more than thirty feet from his truck when a figure lumbered out of the smoking hole. His mind couldn't identify it, but he certainly recognized when a weapon was being leveled in his direction. He shouldered his rifle just as the creature released a stream of light that turned the woman caught in it into a cinder and melted the car beyond.

Three round bursts peppered the thing—which was promptly joined by a second. They did not seem particularly intelligent, but they were definitely hostile.

People panicked.

It was all he could do to continue offering suppressing fire as he backed towards the truck. Vehicles pulled away from the crash site, slammed into one another, or took hits from the invading force—Peter knew that was what these three _things_ represented.

Kaidan's expected invasion was here. And didn't he, Peter, know it when he saw it!

"Peter!" Jia, upon seeing the initial damages, had climbed into the driver's seat and brought the truck up as quickly as she could without wrecking it.

Peter pulled the door open, climbed in, and rolled down the window. "Take us around!"

Jia hit the accelerator, swinging wide around the knot of traffic, her knuckles white on the steering wheel as Peter leaned out the window, ready to open fire if need be.

He felt like a bit of an alarmist, riding shotgun with a rifle at the ready, but better an alarmist than dead.

"Where am I going?" Jia demanded, her voice low and taut as she clenched her jaw muscles.

For a moment Peter considered having her turn around, to run back to Vancouver…but he dismissed it almost immediately. "To the Orchard!" Vancouver was a strategic target. If a few monstrosities were beginning to wander around the countryside, he could only imagine what kind of hammering Vancouver was taking. "It'll be safer!" Whether this was true or not was up for debate, but he had no intention of terrifying his wife. Current circumstances would take care of that soon enough, he was sure.

And, as he watched more of the strange meteors dropping from the sky, for the first time in a long time, Peter Alenko felt a deep-running stab of fear for his son.


	27. Needle

Dresden Forbes arrived at the corridor leading to the Defense Committee's chambers to find that he had missed Shepard and Anderson. Anderson's summons was explicit: _meet us at the DC's chambers. Wait for instructions._

In looking around, he spotted Major Alenko (who looked like someone waiting on a cue) and Lt. Vega (who simply looked grim). "Major. Lieutenant." He saluted briskly and the Dance of the Salute ensued before leaving the three men frowning in different directions.

Alenko suddenly tensed, his omnitool pulsing to catch his attention. He opened the new message, felt his stomach drop and come to a sudden halt at about ankle level.

 _NEEDLE is go. Report to duty station._

Alenko glanced at the closed door of the Committee's chambers. "We need to go," he said quietly to Forbes and Vega.

" _Go_?" Vega frowned, his lips thinning.

Forbes repressed a chuckle: when Vega did that, he also stuck out his chin, which _really_ made him look a bit like a bulldog.

"Yeah, 'go.' You're being tapped for duty." Alenko motioned them to follow, then started off.

He had not wanted to hear ' _NEEDLE is go_.' Operation Needle was the plan for when the Reapers arrived—namely, it got Shepard into a position to do what she did best. She might not know it, but the Alliance was banking heavily on her as their single best asset in this war. She was about to go from a detainee pending full military trial to an operative with an _ipso facto_ carte blanche.

Needle was closely-guarded. As far as Alenko knew, those who were in the loop—the officers that formed Needle's leadership cadre—were all initiated into the plan by direct verbal order from Admiral Hackett.

Nothing about this was supposed to leak. _Nothing_.

According to Needle's procedures, key personnel were alerted, then they would report to the drydock where the _Normandy_ waited. There were some dozen officers in the cadre, not counting Shepard, Anderson, and himself. It was an unspoken thought in every member of Needle's mind that most of them probably would not _get_ to the Normandy when the time came. If one wasn't close, one probably wouldn't make it, which was why—and he knew this was why—he was kicking his heels here.

He used to be part of the Normandy's ground crew. He was supposed to do it again.

Apart from the officers who knew to go to the Normandy (and tap others for duty as the rest of Needle's crew), Needle was remarkably vague in its implementation. The vagueness of the chain of events to follow once Needle was authorized showed exactly how much faith the Alliance put in any plan holding together once the Reapers hit.

Nothing would last long: best to give a general directive and let the crew move out. The general directive revolved around Shepard.

"Where're we going?" Forbes demanded.

"Spaceport to pick up a ride," Alenko responded.

"Hey, whoa, we just left—" Vega began.

"We'll swing back and pick Anderson and Shepard up once we've got a ship in which to do it," came Alenko's cool assertion. "Trust me, the Alliance wants Shepard alive and in play." It was a cold way to put it, but practical.

"So you think this is it?" Forbes asked, frowning.

"I think this is it." Alenko felt it in his guts.

They made it to the ground floor without incident, but they stopped within meters of the exit.

"Holy shit…" Vega mumbled.

Alenko couldn't unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. The part of his mind responsible for motor function locked up, rooting him to the spot as the tentacle-like fingers of a Reaper descended through the clouds.

The part of his mind wired for self-preservation unstuck the motor functions.

Forbes' exhaled breath said it all, really: there was nothing to prepare a person for seeing Reapers descending onto a vulnerable planet.

"Come on." He was amazed at how detached he sounded. Taking off at a jog, he tried to collect his thoughts, tried to ignore the synthetic nightmares live and in person. It was frightening, the way he managed to push aside the Reapers and the damage they were causing unless one or the other was directly in his way.

Communications. He needed to establish communications, find out what the stare of the Normandy was. "This is Major Alenko to the officer on duty!"

" _Uh, this is Joker, holding down the fort…are you seeing this? 'Cause I'm really seeing this…_ "

"Joker…"

" _Yeah, I know, weird to be here, too. Where are you?_ " 

"En route…were you _expecting_ me?" Alenko shook himself, coded Vega and Forbes into the channel so they could hear Joker.

" _Uh…no. No, not_ _expecting_ _you, just…you know, never mind._ " Alenko's sense of true and false dinged: Joker did know…and chances were high as to whether or not he _should_.It didn't matter. Where the Normandy was, there was Shepard. Where there was Shepard…someone had to fly the ship.

He clipped this line of thought.

" _Shit! Don't head for the drydock: it just got wiped!_ " Joker's voice fizzed with static. " _Look, Needle just went down the tubes. Where are you? We'll come get you._ "

"About halfway to the drydock, across from building D34." How had Joker known about Needle? He hadn't even known Joker was _here_ …Alenko's stomach shuddered uncomfortably. "We're really exposed out here, Joker."

" _I know, right? EDI, prime the cargo bay, this is going to be a hot pickup. Alenko, you've gotta get clear of the buildings! Out on the tarmac, you see that big open spot? Hot pickup there, give me…three to five minutes. It's a bit dicey up here!"_ A tone of real concern edged Joker's voice.

"Okay, we'll see you there! Come on, we've gotta hurry." Alenko glanced back at Headquarters in time to see a Reaper laser cut close to it, shattering every pane of glass on the eastern face of the building.

The Committee Chambers were on the east side…


	28. Scatter

Somewhere Outside Rio de Janeiro

Vila Militar

Local Time: 1530 hrs.

"Ma'am!" First Lieutenant Brinker came hurrying into the command cell, his face drawn, sweat beginning to sheen his forehead.

Commandant Demelza Escobar did not look away from her tracking screens, but held up a finger indicating that Brinker should wait. Whatever had her attention passed quickly, for she turned, her hands folded neatly behind her, her silent, undivided attention focused on the lieutenant.

Two words that described Commandant Escobar were 'order' and 'method.'

"It's happening. I think…" It sounded very melodramatic, and Lt. Brinker seemed to realize this very quickly.

"What is happening?" Commandant Escobar asked, unhurried but not apathetic. She was an N7 with more than twenty years' experience under her belt. Approaching retirement age, she'd accepted that the body gave out before the mind, hence why she oversaw Vila Militar rather than try to remain with the ranks of the instructors.

Word had come, less than an hour ago, that communications with Arcturus had blacked out for no reason anyone could identify. That happening, she followed the new procedure for such an occurrence and put the entire facility on standby under the general heading of 'a drill.' Arcturus had insisted, for months, that any cut in communications should be met by certain actions. Losing contact with Arcturus would be, so she understood, just the beginning.

It was a little too much like the early First Contact War: brace for alien contact…there might be aliens out there.

"Vancouver just dropped off the comm-net. When I left communications we were starting to lose Rio," Lt. Brinker articulated. "By now we're probably in blackout."

Escobar pursed her lips at this, quelling her inner misgivings. Vila Militar, for all its shroud of secrecy with regard to its exact location, was surprisingly well-connected with the rest of the world. It was just like the Admiralty suggested: first Arcturus, then Vancouver, then Rio.

The heart of the Alliance Admiralty, the headquarters of the Alliance Military on Earth…and the N-program's major training facility. Or, rather, the general area thereof. Vila Militar was the largest concentration of N-operatives anywhere, and those operatives were valuable, unique assets. Depriving a war of them would be a strategically sound thing for any enemy to do.

And it was her understanding that 'the enemy' in this case would be highly unconventional. Otherwise Arcturus would have let Vila Militar operate under normal conflict procedures: they were to secure the immediate area and wait for orders.

She strode over to the emergency communications unit. Used only in time of war, it would usurp every frequency used by Vila Militar in order to broadcast emergency orders. Using it was tantamount to announcing that war had been declared. "Demelza Escobar, coding in. Keycode: butterfly." The red light showing the unit in lockdown mode turned green. This was the sort of broadcast most officers could live without giving. "All units, this is Commandant Escobar. We have lost communications with Arcturus, with Vancouver, and with Rio. We are now in a state of full alert. This is not a drill. All units in the field are ordered to remove from the Villa's immediate vicinity and prepare for Operations Jaguar and Tree Frog. Local units will prepare for Operation Jaguar. That is all." She severed the connection, then turned to Lt. Brinker. "Shut down the communications facility and prepare for transit, Lt. Brinker. Ladies and gentlemen: begin the lockdown of Vila Militar's headquarters. I am authorizing Cleansweep."

She walked over to her main console, her stomach cold, but her mind clear.

Operation Python was for those farthest afield from the facility: they were to slither into the wilderness and wait for the first wave to pass. Then, they could act as needed: they would strike out of the jungle and vanish right back in.

Operation Tree Frog was for those midrange from the facility or those operatives who were anywhere on Earth but not near the facility: they were to fall back—those to whom it was applicable would get as far away from the Villa as possible—but all would prepare to assist with influxes of refugees. Undoubtedly many would try to escape into the major population centers. Tree Frog's members would organize and direct the civilian aspect. It would increase the civilian population's chances of surviving. And, eventually, these operative-led knots of people might come in useful.

Resistance movements always did.

Operation Jaguar was simple, but the most distasteful: any N-operatives within the facility would be gathered and evacuated. It showed how much this plan was disliked by the number of N-operatives remaining at Vila Militar. No one liked the idea of running from a fight, however nebulous the enemy, but the Brass had been adamant: if the fight came it would not be like any other enemy in history. The N-operatives would be needed more than ever, and there were not very many of them to begin with. They would rendezvous at a planet called Virmire, though most people weren't privy to the exact location.

From Virmire they—hopefully including any survivors from Arcturus—would organize and deploy.

Operation Cleansweep, however, was the nail in the coffin. It was very simple: the Vila could not fall into enemy hands for a variety of reasons, not the least to prevent any of the fresh meat (as the entrants were called) from 'coming home' if it 'seemed safe' or if contacted by this mysterious enemy.

No. The house burned down to keep the operators safe.

And the enemy wouldn't benefit from any of the resources left at the facility.

It was a pity: Vila Militar was 'home' to her. Losing it would be hard…but losing the war that the Brass predicted would follow this severance of communications would be worse.

It was part of being an N7: one had to know how to sacrifice, how to deal with having to sacrifice.

And, because they knew sacrifice, they could force an enemy to make sacrifices, too.


	29. Peel Out

It was always funny to have EDI whispering in his ear. He believed her when she said that it was a closed channel and that, if he was careful, no one would ever know there was a conversation going on. At one time he would have found this deviousness troubling, but he found it more troubling that she might be discovered for what she was.

To his own surprise, he found it troubling that EDI seemed to get…lonely. So she whispered in his ear over a closed channel (when he was aboard ship) and he mumbled back and pretended he was listening to his music turned up too loud.

That way, if anyone heard him, they figured he was rasping out lyrics but couldn't carry the tune to save his life. It was easier to talk to her when he was at 'home.' The Alliance hadn't charged him with anything, but he was wedged into the position of being relieved of duty without actually _being_ relieved of duty.

The Alliance was playing hot potato with a lot of people. Adams was here. Alenko was somewhere around—EDI had tripped over him, so to speak, and relayed the information. Three of the Normandy's original crewmen were on the retrofit crew.

And certain people seemed clingy—officers kept finding reasons to hang around. These people had no idea how to keep their heads down. He'd asked EDI to look into what might be cooking, and she had turned up three references to something called Operation Needle—an extraction plan to remove the Normandy and Shepard from Earth.

They would need Shepard, their number one Reaper hunter in play. It didn't explain why Alenko was here. When the Reapers hit it would be sudden, like a baseball through a window. Maybe the Alliance was going to really step up their preparations; EDI had discovered discreet preparatory actions that, by themselves, didn't signify anything but which, when viewed as a whole, indicated influential someones were finally responding to Shepard's assertions about synthetic squids savaging the galaxy at an unknown but impending date.

Better late than never.

Today, though, EDI seemed nervous. If she wasn't so on-the-spot when asked to do something, he would have said she was distracted. "You feeling okay?" he finally asked, glancing back to find Campbell and Westmorland—his guard detail—chatting a few feet away. It didn't take much to keep Brittle Bones Guy in line so the Alliance hadn't sprung for a tank of a security detail like they had for Shepard.

Security detail. Pfff. More like a bodyguard. As if she needed one.

" _My structural integrity is holding. Jeff, communications with Arcturus station have just gone dark._ "

"Gone dark…like service interruption?" he didn't believe it, but couldn't stop the wisecrack.

" _Communications have been_ cut _._ "

Joker shifted in his seat, glanced back at Campbell and Westmorland. "Okay, so if it's them…"

" _I would rather not be in drydock. I have control of the docking clamps: we can pull out whenever you like. On that note, I would like to anticipate Operation Needle._ " EDI had liked the designation 'Needle' because finding it at all had been like looking for a needle in a haystack. Just like looking for the Normandy, if one wasn't actually looking out a window.

" _I have just received a text-only message from Shepard._ "

EDI put it in one of the haptic interface's small windows.

 _EDI, if you can hear this,_ they _are here._

"All right, we're pulling out. Release clamps…" Joker shivered, wondering how this was going to work…

"Alert: multiple unknown inbound spacecraft detected," EDI suddenly announced via the comm-system. "All personnel to action stations."

Suddenly, safety barriers sprang into place, sealing off the cockpit. Westmorland and Campbell both cried protest, but Joker knew it didn't matter: if EDI had him sealed in, no one was getting close to him.

"What the hell's going on up there, Joker?" Adams demanded. "The drive core just lit up like a fireworks display!"

"Uh, we've got company. We're gonna pick up Shepard. Campbell, Westmorland, get down to the cargo bay, we may need a hot pickup!"

"I have visual." EDI announced. "Projecting." Across the bridge and all over the ship, any display capable of projecting images lit up, showing tapped footage of Reapers descending gracefully into Vancouver.

"Are you seeing this?" Westmorland asked softly.

"You heard EDI, find an action station and buckle up!" Joker barked as the Normandy careened out of drydock. "EDI, get Shepard on the line! Find out where she is!" Because, of course, that was what Needle was about. He might not be initiated into Needle, not officially, but it was clear enough he was to take part.

Why else would he be allowed to hang out on the Normandy, under armed guard or not? No, he'd been kept in the dark because of the Cerberus thing. He was a security risk, or so the line of thought went.

"She has been apprised of the situation. Admiral Anderson will brief her. We will need to select an alternate location for ex…my external communication lines are being jammed. I will need to reroute."

"Do that," Joker agreed before turning his attention to his suddenly over-full display. So much information came pouring in that, had he been anyone else, he might have lost track of where to look first. "Adams, please tell me the drive core's at peak performance!" With the drydock suddenly in smoking ruins behind them, he wanted to verbal confirmation from a tech-head that all the core needed was a little spit polish…and only for the satisfaction seeing it shine.

" _Do what you've gotta do, I've got this end covered._ "

Joker took a deep breath. "We got Shepard yet?" he demanded of EDI.

"Negative, but I do have an incoming transmission under Needle's frequency. Patching…"

" _This is Major Alenko to the officer on duty!_ " Alenko's voice rasped.

"Uh, this is Joker, holding down the fort…are you seeing this? 'Cause I'm really seeing this…"


	30. Unfavorable

"Shepard!"

Shepard rose out of the darkness that had tried to swallow her, to find herself looking up at Anderson. He was fuzzy, but she forced herself to respond to his shaking of her shoulder and sit up. "You alright?"

"Yeah, fine," she slurred, getting to her feet. Her vision started to clear and, while she ached from being flung against the wall—for that was what seemed to have happened—she didn't seem to be truly hurt. Just scratched and scraped.

Shepard looked around the room, picked her way over to where the Defense Committee lay. None of them had survived the explosion of the window, the shrapnel of glass shredding them to ribbons.

They couldn't stay here, both N7s knew it, so it was by unspoken consensus that they found a way out of the room.

The only way out was the window, so out the window Shepard and Anderson went.

Shepard paused long enough to have one more look at the glass-mangled bodies of the Defense Committee and wonder whether Admiral Hackett was alive. And if he wasn't…well, who was the new central authority?

"Shepard, take this. You'll need it."

Shepard didn't ask where Anderson got the second pistol, maybe one of the Defense Committee had it, but she accepted it, checked how much of the block was left. Not enough, if her instincts were right.

Shepard felt like she was back at the Villa for the N-program—the first bout of it, where they wanted to 'test your physical and mental endurance.' Climbing around on the façade of Alliance Headquarters definitely had that feel.

"This is Admiral Anderson, is anyone on this channel?" Anderson demanded sharply as they trotted along. "Alenko? Is that you?"

Shepard pursed her lips, then forced herself to watch her footing and not the Reapers moving around like synthetic severed hands. She shivered, aware every time one of the closest Reapers opened fire. The sound was hard to miss.

Or ignore.

"What's your status? I can't raise the _Normandy_ : you'll have to pick us up. We'll meet you at the landing zone. What? Good, keep them with you, they'll come in handy."

Shepard bit her lip, hoping she knew who 'they' were.

"Anderson out. Good news," Anderson said over his shoulder, "Alenko has Vega and Forbes—they're heading for the _Normandy_ now."

"Good," Shepard said, nerves making her terse.

"We've got to get to the spaceport," Anderson continued, his expression drawn into lines of stern determination.

"I don't think the Normandy's there anymore, Anderson," Shepard said quietly. She _highly_ doubted EDI would hang around waiting to be swarmed or buried in rubble.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"Call it a hunch."

"Hunch? Right…" the admiral exhaled sharply, but did not slacken his pace. "Husks!"

Shepard ground to a halt, nearly careening into Anderson as he stopped. She raised her pistol, then moved forward a few steps. Sure enough, husks had started to scale the building, but they did not seem to realize there were two relatively easy targets behind them.

-J-

Anderson shuddered inwardly at the blue-lit, mutated, human-like bodies scrambling up the side of the building like spiders. He knew what husks looked like, but there was a difference in knowing and actually seeing one. The extra time he'd begun spending at the shooting range showed, and he was glad he'd gone back to one of his old stress-relievers.

Shepard's declaration that the Normandy probably wouldn't be in drydock—where she was supposed to be at the moment—puzzled him, but as she hadn't elaborated, he expected to find out the basis for her belief later. She didn't seem worried about their ride being misplaced.

He glanced at Shepard. Six months of a relatively sedentary life hadn't done her any favors, but she seemed to have kept her sharpness. Her expression, when he glanced back to check that she was still behind him, was hard, but introspective. Whatever she was thinking, it wasn't to her taste.

He looked back to their path of travel. Navigating the façade of Alliance Headquarters was tricky—it was never meant to be a walkway. Nevertheless, there were ways to go about it.

Finally, though, they got within sight of a balcony that would let them back into the main facility, which would give them a fairly clear run to get to the ground level and the drydock.

It would also let them snag a few more crewmen. He didn't know how many of Needle's operatives had made or would make it to the ship, but he knew that, whatever the number, it would be too few.

"Down!" Shepard crashed into him, sending him at an angle to land facedown. Overhead came an explosion and a shockwave. Flying glass pattered harmlessly down on them, the smell of smoke appearing on the wind.

Shepard got up, pulled on his arm to indicate he should do the same.

One of the Reaper beams must have cut too close to the lee side of the building—lee side relative to where he and Shepard stood. It had blasted out all the windows and wrenched the security door to hang lopsidedly on its hinges. He shook himself, then opened fire as husks began to crawl up the side of the building.

Shepard joined in, her eyes narrowed, her lip trying to curl with something akin to hatred.

Her pistol locked back, evidencing an empty clip. "Stupid things!" she growled viciously. If she were any less the soldier, she would have thrown he weapon aside, but she was trained, the elite of Alliance forces, so she stuck the weapon in her belt and cued her omnitool. In seconds, small incendiary mines began to pop and explode around the husks. Coupled with Anderson's own gunfire, the waves of grotesque human shapes ceased, apparently looking for some easier prey.

Or maybe that was all of them, for the moment, Anderson thought grimly as Shepard took point, her omnitool on, free hand full of tech mines.


	31. Hold

Vega didn't know what he would have done if the Major's evacuation route hadn't taken them past the armory, where the SPs were arming all able-bodied riflemen. No, he knew: he'd just use his fists. But he preferred the rifle.

He thought he'd seen the worst—short of a real, full-size Reaper—on Fehl.

He was wrong, and could admit it. Shepard had always been remarkably communicative about the Reapers, what they could do, what their forces were like—almost as if she was a private tutor for some obscure subject. Still, none of that prepared him for _this_.

Joker, the _Normandy's_ pilot, had made it clear that he could only make a pickup if he had room for the _Normandy_ to hover. Getting to a rooftop—which would be the best point for extraction—was a _bad_ idea, since it left the team even more exposed to Reaper fire. At least down here they had some cover…even in the middle of the tarmac. He supposed there had to be a lee side of any building, and Forbes had called a halt and set up their holding action within the shadow of the nearest hangar.

They could, Forbes reasoned, wait kind-of-out-of-sight until Joker brought the _Normandy_ in, and then sprint the last hundred or so yards. That was why they were crouched close to one of the buildings overlooking the flightline.

Vega hadn't liked being so close to the building, but he wouldn't have liked being out in the middle of the tarmac, either. The only comfort was that the hangar was small, had only one doorway for the mid-size shuttles to move in and out of, and that door was currently closed.

The Reaper drop ships didn't care where they landed: the simply fell from orbit and smashed on the surface. The impact destroyed whatever the outer hull was and allowed a dozen or so husks to emerge uninjured and ready to fight.

Consequently, the husks came in droves, gurgling in their throats like zombies and moving faster than one might expect. That was either new, or Shepard was so accustomed to 'husks can be quick' that she hadn't thought to mention it. There was worse: big hulks, each with a weaponized arm. They moved slowly, but had reach compared to the husks. They could shoot at you while you tried to fend off waves of husks: if the weight of numbers didn't get you, the suppressing fire would.

Neither the big hulks nor this adoption of actual tactics ever came up in Shepard's conversation. And _those_ were things she wouldn't leave out. Which meant that the Parade of Unpleasant Surprises—to use her wording—had officially begun.

They smelled bad, too; not that a Reaper-thing _should_ smell okay, but they stank, like an old garage with a port-a-john no one ever bothered to empty out. He couldn't imagine being in close quarters with them.

Vega snorted, letting loose another volley of rounds at chest-height, wondering why Alenko wasn't smashing the husks to jelly.

"Shoot their legs!" Alenko barked, his corona of dark energy flaring around him.

The flare made Vega shudder, the feel of static electricity—or just potential energy—filling the air. That was the one thing he remembered most clearly about working with biotics—the _first_ thing he'd noticed when working with a biotic: that hair-raising static.

Alenko was a stronger biotic than Vega expected, picking up a half dozen charging husks and slamming them sideways into a half dozen more coming from a different direction. The throw became a push, the two mnemonic actions executed as if one was an extension of the other. Anyone who had never worked with a biotic, even those who'd had only a little experience doing it, would have thought the entire chain of events resulted from one single expenditure of power instead of two.

Essex would have loved a sit-down-and-chat with Alenko.

Vega clamped down on this, realized he'd been shooting 'on autopilot.'

It was all in the training: the mind got saturated and the body rifled through muscle memory to find the appropriate response. He'd better not rely on that autopilot too often, he chastised himself, or he might end up as some husk's chew toy.

"Two more minutes!" Forbes barked.

"We can hold," Alenko responded with a sort of trained calm. "When we make out break for the _Normandy_ , I'll cover us. Vega, keep the left side clear, Forbes, on the right, and run like hell!"

They didn't need to be told, Vega thought grimly, but it was nice to know they were all on the same page.

"Can't you do something about that _thing_?" Forbes demanded a moment later as he had to scuttle back—knocking into Vega—to avoid fire from one of the big hulks.

"Damn thing's just out of reach," Alenko retorted. "I—" he stopped, seemed to count in his head. "Hang on!"

Alenko dropped to his knees, his omnitool flaring.

Vega glanced down, but didn't understand what Alenko was doing. He wasn't much of a techhead.

Alenko jumped to his feet, his aura flared, and he flung his whatever-it-was high, pushed along by biotic force. Get it high enough and with enough energy behind it, and gravity could take over. Alenko waited, his omnitool active…

The package hit the ground, then exploded, the big husk—was there a _name_ for those things?—staggering as all its lights flickered and sputtered. "Tech mines still work," Alenko announced, but the words got lost in the sound of engines and—even more welcome—suppressing fire, as the _Normandy_ swooped in, cargo bay open to reveal a line of riflemen laying down fire.

"Go, go, go!" Alenko barked.

Vega flinched as a dome of biotic energy settled around their party. With every step his brain said 'you're gonna smash into that wall.'

He jumped onto the liftgate, joining the line of riflemen as Alenko took a sit-rep and began organizing for Shepard's and Anderson's extraction.


	32. Recursion

It was good to know her reflexes were still sharp. As Anderson palmed the door open, a husk leapt at the gap, getting its head and shoulders through before the door stuck. Shepard drew back her punching arm and sunk her omniblade into the thing's head. The blade snapped off, as it was supposed to, freeing her hand for a more conventional punch.

Her knuckles protested, but the husk went down and did not try to rise again. "I hate those things," Shepard muttered, wincing as one of the Reapers let off that strange sound. Whether it was a weapon powering up, some kind of shielding device, or maybe they just liked to make noises that froze their prey, it was hard to tell.

But the sound rattled in her sinuses and throbbed in her ears.

Shepard braced the door open, let Anderson slip through.

Sound caught her attention, a hollow clank. For a moment, she thought it might be an ambush, but nothing happened.

She edged back the way she'd come, found an uncovered air ventilation shaft set close to the ground. It was open, though she didn't recall noticing that when she'd originally scanned the room. Another clunk came from within the shaft.

Shepard tiptoed to the wall, crouched, then leaned over to peer into the darkness. She wished she had her full rig and little penlight.

A faint gasp and a gleam of eyes, which withdrew a few scuttled paces—and she used the word loosely. "Hey there," she breathed, picking out an outline, then shades of grey as her eyes adjusted to the dimness.

It was the boy from the little park her cell overlooked—the one who liked to play with toy ships. Of course, he wouldn't know her, but she knew him by face, certainly. The already large eyes of childhood were larger than ever with fear and horror. His well-defined mouth currently puckered in an attempt not to cry or make noise.

He shrank back, clearly at a loss over the best course of action. She had no idea how he'd gotten into the vents, but kids had a way of getting into small spaces. It was a desirable trait now and, from the look of the dark marks on the cuffs of his sweatshirt and the smudges on his face, he'd been in there (and crying quietly) for some time.

"Hey there," Shepard repeated, forcing the harsh edges out of her tone.

"Hey." He inched forward, just enough to come into the light, revealing bright and bloodshot eyes.

Memory stirred in her mind, from a dark, usually disused corner of consciousness. Memory of another child, panicky, lost, alone in a waking nightmare. "I'm Jalissa," she volunteered.

The questions of how she was supposed to get this child out of Alliance Headquarters, and then what to do with him if she managed it, tried to nibble at her mind, but she shoved them aside. She'd _carry_ the kid, if she had to. She couldn't leave him here.

"I'm—"

The boy stifled a scream, his gaze roving past Shepard's shoulder.

She turned to see a Reaper walk past the building; it let off its distorted cry as it did so, prompting the boy to clamp his hands over his ears. This time, a whimper escaped as violent shaking overcame him. "Everyone's dying!" came the anguished declaration.

"I know it looks that way…" Shepard paused, then aborted whatever she meant to say. As reassuring as it might be, it still sounded too much like a lie. "Come on; I'm getting out of here, and I'll take you with me."

The boy looked dubious as, clearly, the ingrained rule of thumb for children flittered across his mind: _don't talk to strangers_. And, most especially (the addendum to this went) don't go anywhere with one.

"Look, I know what your parents told you about strangers—mine told me the same thing. But this isn't the usual situation, and the old rules…they're not gonna hold up."

"I'm scared."

Shepard gave wry laugh. "I don't blame you for that. Come on, take my hand. I'll get you someplace safe." She held out her hand, as if trying to coax a timid creature to take something from it. "Come on, kid," she whispered, "let me get you out of here." Because, of course, she couldn't just lunge at him, grab him by the wrist and drag him out—he'd run the first chance he got and, in all probability, get himself killed.

The idea to invoke the ship she hoped to reach came to her. But before she could ask 'you like ships, right?' the boy gave a choked sob, then, "You can't save me."

The coaxing look on Shepard's face slid off like blood off a wall. All the color in her face followed as her expression dripped away. She swallowed hard, her gaze fixed upon the child. Something in her sinuses stung, a sting which moved to her eyes. "Yes," she argued, "I can."

"Shepard!" Anderson's voice cut across the conversation, drawing a startled gasp form the boy.

Shepard turned sharply, found Anderson frowning at her from the doorway. Realizing she wasn't behind him, he'd doubled back. She held up a finger, looked back into the shaft…

…but the boy was gone.

She swallowed hard, blinked several times to clear her eyes, then got to her feet.

Anderson didn't ask what she'd found: since she hadn't brought it with her, there was no point. He braced the door open so Shepard could duck past him.

Shepard glanced back at the vent, knowing it was empty, knowing there was nothing she could do. She also knew why the encounter left her feeling so rattled. It would have on any other day, at any other time. But her own history amplified the event.

One of her younger brothers was just that age the last time she'd had a world burned out from under her. She hadn't saved him, either.


	33. Help

"You two all right?" Shepard demanded, jumping down to kneel beside the downed soldier.

"Get down! They'll see—"

He never finished the sentence, for Shepard's and Anderson's first action _was_ to take cover and sweep the area for enemies. Upon finding them, both opened up, catching the hulk in crossfire.

"Damn! What do you know about these things, Shepard?" Anderson demanded.

"Not a damn thing! Never seen these before!" Her stomach, twisted; she had the vague impression that if humans made husks…someone else contributed to these hideous things.

"—leg's broken," the first soldier was saying, "and I think there's something wrong with his shoulder."

"What happened here?" Anderson demanded, handing his rifle to Shepard as they switched places.

"Our gunship went down," the uninjured soldier replied. "We barely made it."

"Shoulder fractures. Damn. You got a radio? We're trying to call in our ship."

"N-no," replied the injured soldier, his face pasty-pale with pain under a sheen of sweat. "Not here—one in the gunship. That way," he motioned with his uninjured arm. "It's going to be crawling with those… _things_."

"Can't be helped. Shepard, lend a hand here," Anderson got to his feet, taking his rifle back from Shepard.

"But sir…" the first soldier began.

"Gentlemen, what the Admiral means is you've been tapped for duty. Fall in," Shepard announced, proffering her pistol to the uninjured soldier before she helped the injured man to his feet and steadying him.

"Come on, let's go," Anderson jerked his head, looping the injured soldier's uninjured arm around his shoulders. "Shepard, you're on point."

Shepard adjusted her rifle and prowling forward, careful to present as small a target as possible while picking a path through the ruins of the new waterfront terrain.

Resistance was stiff, but not as though some Reaper eye in the sky (crawling across the area like a hand 'walking' on its fingers) had marked Shepard's position. Part of her mind drifted back to events during the Blitz—most notably running out of ammunition. That seemed a high probability here, now.

"I've got visual on the gunship!" Shepard checked her surroundings, then negotiated the twisted metal littering the path to the still-smoking ship. She climbed onto it and reached through the side door, vanishing to the waist for a moment before reappearing with the emergency supply box under one arm. She slid to the ground, immediately taking cover. "All right! Bunker down—we're going to have to stand still for a while!"

"Roger that!" Anderson called, easing his charge to the ground behind a wrenched-up piece of groundwork that, for the moment, provided some modicum of cover. It looked sturdy, too. "You remember how to do this?" Anderson demanded, checking his ammunition.

Shepard gave a humorless laugh. "I remember to bleed if I get shot! How's that?" she retorted before synching into the radio.

"Close enough!"

"Incoming!" The first soldier—the unnamed, uninjured crewman of the gunship—called, voice high with fear but still controlled. One didn't face down waves of Reaper shock troops without a healthy fear of them. At least none of them had recognizable faces.

Anderson nodded. N7s had that kind of steadying effect on people when situations got hot. These poor fellows had the benefit of two such soldiers handling the situation.

" _Normandy_ , _Normandy_ , this is…shit!" Shepard shouldered her rifle and directed a stream of shots downrange. The smoking impact marks near her position lent unnecessary gravity to the situation. "Shit, this is Juliet Sierra, requesting dust-off, repeat this is Juliet Sierra requesting dust-off. Over."

How long had it been since she had to use her textbook comm training? Kept only for nostalgic purposes in this age of real-time comm channels and personal radios, it was better than shouting 'Shepard is here!' didn't seem that great an idea. It also steadied her nerves.

For a tense moment there was nothing, then the radio coughed. " _This is Normandy Actual_ , _Juliet,_ " Alenko's husky voice cut across the line. " _What's your position_?"

"Normandy Actual, we are maybe a klick or so, November Echo of Headquarters and taking heavy fire." Which he could probably hear. She manufactured a tech mine and lobbed it, grenade-like, in the general direction of the Reapers. The pulse didn't seem to hurt them, but it seemed to disorient them, which was the next best thing.

" _Roger that, Juliet_. _To November Echo of Headquarters. Ident your position, over._ "

"Popping red smoke," Shepard found the canister in the emergency supply box, pulled the pin on the canister, and let it roll to her left. The copious smoke blossomed into the air and immediately began drifting towards the massing Reapers. "Red smoke is away. I have one patient: broken leg and multiple shoulder fractures. Over."

" _Roger that, Juliet. Medteam is standing by. Over_." Which meant, and she knew it meant, he would handle that aspect himself since he was a qualified team medic. Thank goodness for that.

Shepard almost flung the radio aside when Anderson shouted for her. She grabbed her rifle and hurried forward, fighting the urge to switch from the control of three-round bursts to fully automatic—which had always seemed to her a panicky thing to do.

"Shepard! Light a fire under them!" Anderson roared.

Within minutes the wave of Reapers fell back, and Shepard lunged for the radio.

"… _Juliet? Juliet, are you copying? Please respond!_ "

"Seawolf says to hurry your asses up!" Shepard barked, voice a little shriller than she would like. "We're getting mobbed! Over!"

" _We have visual, Juliet. Hold position, we're almost there._ "

"Shouldn't be long!" Shepard called.

"I've got visual!" came the cry from the uninjured soldier, relief suffusing his voice.

"You hear that?" Anderson's voice boomed for a moment as the sound of a ship's engine keened through the air. "That's the sound of hell closing in on those bastards!"

So it was: the _Normandy_ swooped gracefully in, opening fire with the Thanix cannon and drawing a long, dark mark in the ground that cut through the Reapers' position.


	34. Move Out

Outside Rio de Janeiro

Twenty-five kilometers from Vila Militar

Local Time: 1537 hrs.

Lt. Commander Micah Becker did not let his sudden cloud of anger, worry, and appalled outrage show to his unit of N-program novices. He liked the word 'novice' for those who had yet to receive their N1 designation.

'Fresh meat' seemed a little too…cliched…for his liking.

The anger was residual and had nothing to do with the current situation: one of the novices had slipped on an obstacle, that never should have been slipped on, and twisted an ankle. The kid wasn't complaining about it, but it was the principle of the matter.

The worry came from the fact that he'd heard the orders no one wanted to hear.

The outrage came over the gall of someone to try attacking _Earth_. Becker knew what kind of cesspools the planet housed, but this was _home_. The idea of aliens trying to steamroll it pissed him off, though he worked hard to hide it. Before joining the N-program, he'd been known for his temper and voluble venting thereof. Now he was older, supposedly wiser, and leading a team.

He wasn't sure there was a safety valve—or set of them—that could help him vent this particular bout of outrage.

He checked his watch: seven minutes ago, Commandant Escobar had given the word to initiate Operation Python, telling his unit to slither into the wilderness and wait. They were close to the facility, but not close enough to make it back in time to take part in Tree Frog. That was, on the whole, best. Most of his initiates would hate running…though his impression was that efforts on the ground would have limited success.

All Operations Tree Frog and Python were, as far as he could tell, were attempts to buy time, to hoard resources against the day when something truly constructive could be done. They were holding actions and little else.

But he had no intention of voicing this to his unit: they would figure it out for themselves soon enough.

"Any idea what we're supposed to be fighting?" Brigs—Bridget Matthis, his second-in-command—asked, frowning at the sky.

"None whatsoever," Becker answered.

"Hmph. Nothing new there, then," Brigs answered with dry humor. They had been 'Becker and Brigs' for nearly ten years, now: each knew how the other thought, and Brigs knew that now was the time to start walking. "All right, kids—this isn't a vacation! Get your rucks on and get ready to go!"

Typical of the training, none of the initiates complained, but there was a jerky sort of nervousness in their movements that had not existed previously.

The ground shook, suddenly, a vague sort of tremor. All eyes snapped to the horizon, in the direction of Vila Militar. From that general vicinity coiled a dark column of smoke. The Commandant had done what no commanding officer wanted to do: she'd destroyed her own posting rather than let it fall into enemy hands.

The purpose was, Becker knew, twofold: first to keep the base out of enemy hands…and if the enemy knew of Vila Militar's existence and purpose—it was safe to assume this was the case—it would draw them out to see what, exactly, needed to be destroyed.

It would give those close enough a chance to see what they were up against. It would also ensure that the enemy had something to investigate while the ground forces withdrew.

Those were the theories anyway—

"Holy shit on toast…" In that moment, Brigs did something she almost never did: her biotic aura flared and condensed around her. Brigs was she described as a 'self-conscious' biotic. Most people didn't realize she had the faculty.

If Becker could have 'flared up' at that moment, would have. From the northwest came a ship, clearly not one of theirs, zipping along at speed. Its wake shook the trees as it arrowed towards the Vila. He couldn't judge distance, but he hoped the immediate area around Vila Militar's crater was clear of operatives: he highly doubted those falling objects were friendly. They didn't explode—not that he could see—but that didn't mean much.

"That-that's one of those Reaper things Shepard was raving about two years ago…isn't it?" Brigs asked, her eyes large in her face. Seeing was believing, so the saying went, but she wasn't sure she believed what she was seeing in spite of seeing it.

Damn things were real… "Come on," Becker said, his voice a bit less confident than he would have liked. At least he didn't stammer. "Let's go. We'll quick-step it. Fifty paces at a hit, single file, you know the drill. Brigs, you're the rearguard.

"I think you're right…" Brigs nodded, aware that her biotics would have a much better chance of blocking anything that sneaked up behind them…

…unless these Reapers started slash-and-burn tactics. That was one way to flush out prey.

With his orders given, Becker set off, walking fifty paces, then jogging fifty more, his novices falling in behind him as he plotted a course that angled away from the Vila, heading south and west.

Brigs brought up the rear, 'one eye forward, one eye aft' as the saying went.

Travel in this fashion was usually quiet, but now it was done in almost complete silence. No one waited for the order to ready weapons, but there was hardly a sound as the necessary actions were performed. The lack of rattles and clicks, rather than imply professionalism, added a fearful undercurrent to the column of soldiers.

Becker kept a close eye on his compass, knowing as he did that the wilderness left in Brazil—the part utilized by Vila Militar—was studded with small re-org stations. With any luck, other cadres of operatives would also go to those caches. There was safety and strength in numbers, and they would need that, eventually, once people started pouring out of population centers and into the imagined safety of empty places.


	35. Controlled Chaos

"Hey, Esteban!" Vega called as he hurried towards the cargo bay's liftgate. "Find and grab Shepard's ray gun! She'll want it!"

That made sense; Steve Cortez couldn't imagine how much ammunition a soldier could go through in a situation like the one below them.

Ray gun, ray gun, ray gun…Cortez shuffled through the boxes of as yet unpacked ordinance, weapons, armor, mods. He knew the stupid thing was here _somewhere_. He'd put it somewhere specific, so he'd know where it was—it unnerved him.

Unfortunately, every weapon being 'returned' to Shepard was covered in warnings meant to keep nosy people at bay…and he'd done exactly what he and the galaxy at large had done for centuries: he'd put it in a safe place, only to forget where the safe place—

He found it, recognizing the crate by its weight compared with its size. The Collector weapon was lighter than one might expect. The rumor was that Shepard had, somehow, modified the thing to run on standard Alliance heavy weapon cells.

The rough-hewn weapon, the one that looked more organic than like a constructed piece of artillery, lay quiescent in the case, sealed up with no visible means of 'opening' it for use. His stomach squirmed as he yanked it free, disliking the texture of it and its weird distribution of weight. He could appreciate the irony of shooting Collectors with one of their own weapons, but he still didn't like touching it.

"Shepard's ray gun!" he called, almost—but not quite—tossing the weapon to Alenko, who was passing to take up position at the cargo bay doors. You only had to look at Alenko to know the biotic intended to jump to the ground and forcibly backup the extraction.

Cortez snatched up a rifle of his own, took a position at the end of the line.

" _The cavalry has arrived_!" Joker announced, probably for the benefit of the crew as for the marines on the ground.

-J-

"Shoot high!" Alenko directed, his tone oddly steady and decidedly less upbeat than Joker's last announcement. "We need to make this fast!" The cargo bay doors began to open, revealing too much bright-in-the-sun concrete, and too many Reapers. He picked out Shepard, Anderson, and their huddle of servicemen just in time to see Shepard shake her rifle, then cast it aside.

She stood up for one moment, made a throwing motion. Nothing happened as she dropped back behind cover, but seconds later minor explosions popped amongst the grotesque monstrosities, sending them staggering into one another.

The sound of the Normandy did not distract Shepard or Anderson—who was, by now, down to his sidearm—but it certainly had the attention of the others. There must not be enough weapons, if only Shepard and Anderson were shooting.

Alenko jumped from the cargo bay, his corona of dark energy flaring abruptly. He'd noticed a particular chunk of duracrete during the descent and made use of it now, wrenching it up and slamming it laterally into the Reapers, partially clearing the shooting gallery and crushing those on the end of the debris' path of travel.

Gravity worked wonders.

"Cav's here!" Shepard barked, priming more tech mines. "Let's do this!"

"We've got injured here!" Anderson's voice boomed, calm and controlled. "Get 'em loaded!"

"Shepard! Fresh ammo!" Alenko called. He hurried up to her position, shoving the weapon at her before sweeping a pack of husks to one side and into the bay. He wondered, vaguely, if they could swim.

Shepard seized her modified Collector weapon, slapped it open, then began firing, flashes of yellow light, controlled bursts, sinking into the Reapers. "Nice of you to join the party! What kept you?" It was not a complaint, merely the sort of banter that cropped up during combat.

…when there was breath for it; reinforcements had clearly given her her second wind.

"Traffic's bad—what'd you think?" Alenko retorted; nothing like a warzone to keep things friendly. He waved, a gossamer fine veil of energy settling over two or three clustered Reapers. They spasmed, then crumpled slowly to the ground as if their vitality were being drained from them.

" _Nice_ ," Shepard approved before lobbing a tech mine in the weakened Reapers' direction: no sense waiting for Alenko to sap them of all their juice. Better to get it over as quickly as possible.

-J-

Vega jumped down from the cargo bay liftgate to help move the injured man, casting glances first at Anderson, then to Shepard and Alenko. Give Shepard that ray gun and she wreaked absolute havoc. Or maybe it was like with tracers: someone shooting little lights when no one else was tended to be unnerving.

"Leg's broken!" Anderson barked, pointing to the two hangers-on. "Take him, get him to the medbay!"

Vega didn't let his eyes fix on the Reapers'—like grotesque hands—walking on their 'fingers.' He wanted to though, because it seemed too impossible. Nothing had prepared him for seeing them live.

However, it was not the most frenetic battlefield he'd ever seen. In fact, for being full of zombies and monsters, it was remarkably controlled: Shepard had the frontline with Alenko for backup, Anderson was overseeing evacuation, Alenko had left orders with the line of marksmen—and Vega used the term loosely—kneeling in the cargo bay.

Suppressing fire for when the frontline finally fell back.

Controlled chaos.

Vega didn't bother trying to 'help' the injured man walk. He simply leaned over and pulled him into a fireman's lift. He didn't understand why the guy originally helping him stagger hadn't done it: it was a faster way to move, less jarring.

It took a little effort to get up into the cargo bay again, but he managed. Joker could hold the _Normandy_ remarkably steady when he needed to.

Vega paused at the liftgate, looked back over the city of Vancouver. It was like a scene out of a vid, only worse because the smells beginning to carry on the wind were all too real.


	36. Those Who Fight Monsters

Anderson watched Vega tote the injured pilot off, then reached forward, slapping Shepard and Alenko both on their backs. "All right, marines! Fall back!" This was it, and he'd finally reached a decision that should not have taken so long to reach.

"Alenko! Go," Shepard ordered firmly, not taking her eyes from the parade of Reapers currently held at bay.

For a moment Alenko seemed on the verge of balking, but he didn't. Anderson thought he knew what that was about: Shepard had ordered Alenko to leave her once and had ended up dead. He could see how a teammate wouldn't want to replicate that kind of situation.

Nevertheless, Alenko obeyed.

"Shepard!" Anderson barked, once Alenko had fallen about halfway back to the ship.

Shepard began scooting back as well, getting to her feet as soon as she could, still sending volleys of fire—now augmented by a line of riflemen at the Normandy's liftgate. She stopped when she drew level with him, shoulder-to-shoulder, ready to match him step for step.

"I need you to go to the Citadel!" He shouted, knowing he was yelling in her ear, but there was no other way, really, with her standing where she was.

"That's kinda the plan!" Shepard retorted, still moving back, pace by pace.

No one wanted to present their backs to the Reapers; it was nothing against the line of soldiers covering the retreat, it was simply the principle of turning one's _back_ to the _Reapers_. No part of that sounded like a good idea.

Anderson wasn't sure, at first, if she'd missed the point on purpose or if the Reapers truly had that much if her attention. However, the sideling look she shot him a moment later confirmed it. "I'm staying!" he announced, trying to find a happy medium between yelling so she could hear and not yelling so the crew wouldn't.

This was a command decision and he didn't want to destabilize the tentative control the situation seemed to be under. People would have their bad reactions to all this eventually: best to put it off as long as possible, let them get somewhere relatively safer.

"The hell you say!"

"Don't be an asshole!" Anderson interrupted, "There's a million more men down here! I won't be on the frontlines with you if I go and we both know it! And I'll be damned if I'll be benched when there's a place for me here!" She couldn't argue it: they both knew that Admirals did _not_ ground pound on the frontlines. Not even the willful ones.

More to the point, those left on Earth would need all the leaders, men and women trained to lead in warzones, they could get. Leaders might rise, but it always helped to have people trained for it. Less trial-and-error.

He hadn't spent all those years training and serving in the field to have those now supremely valuable skills go to waste in a boardroom.

"Anderson! I need your voice!"

He knew what she _meant_ but, as she'd sidestepped his hint that he was staying, he sidestepped the obvious undertone of her remark. "Find your own!"

"Not funny! They've been hearing it from me for too long! They won't _listen_!"

After all, he'd been a counselor at one point. His words would have more weight with them—not much, but, and Shepard's line of bitter reasoning was painfully clear—than the delusional disgraced Spectre. "Then _make_ them listen!"

"I don't think I can just _shoot_ my way through the Citadel's command structure!"

Maybe it'd be a good idea, but he couldn't very well _say_ that. What the words didn't say that her tone did was 'I can't do this alone anymore.' He wondered, briefly, what the Reapers' arrival was really doing to her, what was lurking beneath the controlled expression on her face.

Shepard, still trying to suppress the tide of irrationality she'd fought since realizing the Reapers had arrived, regretted what sounded, to her, like a cop out. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was the same with her as with the Council: they'd heard her raving about Reapers for too long while she'd put up with their stonewalling for so long. She'd have to try to scrape together more patience, more understanding of the panic she'd likely meet there, when she had time.

"You've got your orders, Commander!" Anderson barked, elbowing her sharply in the chestplate to get her to stumble a few steps behind him.

"Hey! No rank, no orders!" she retorted. She knew she was being irrational, knew she had to fight harder not to be. Anything done here on Earth, on any world the Reapers landed on, would be a holding action only. There was no hope of 'victory.' The only victory would be to survive long enough to see the might of the galaxy unite and be brought to bear against the Reapers.

Fighting this war planetside was a losing proposition. Even if she stayed it wouldn't do anyone any good; she'd be a drop in a bucket, while the potential—and she stressed the word _potential_ —to affect change would be wasted. Maybe to the detriment of all.

Anderson smiled grimly, reached into a pocket and shoved new dog tags into Shepard's hand.

"Damn. Guess that doesn't fly…" Shepard muttered, but she did not look surprised. It was strange seeing her personal information stamped on those oblong plates again. She slipped them around her neck; they felt strange, unfamiliar.

"I'm reinstating you, Commander. Rally reinforcements! Get the gears grinding into action! Now move out! Go on!"

"Try not to get dead," Shepard snarled, backing up until someone reached down and grabbed her by the shoulder to let her know she'd reached the liftgate.

"That's one thing I can do for you!" And, with that, Anderson took off at a lope, making use of what cover was there, and the fact that the suppressing fire had done its job, driving the Reapers back to find less hostile prey.


	37. Reality Ensues

Shepard's head pounded with pain, but she shoved it aside as she jumped onto the liftgate and stepped into the cargo bay proper.

"Shepard…the admiral not coming?" Forbes asked, watching Anderson's progress.

"No, he's not." He couldn't bear to sit out the war behind a desk somewhere. Shepard understood that, understood the necessity of having people like Anderson on the ground…but she didn't like leaving him.

"I'll stay, too," Forbes assured her. "He'll need the help—and if you can't trust _me_ , who can you trust?"

He had a point, and leaving her favorite protégé would be the next best thing to staying herself. It caused her less concern over Forbes staying: as an N, he'd end up posted groundside somewhere, anyway. "Better hurry. He moves fast for an old guy."

Forbes saluted and jumped to the ground.

"Joker, take us up," Shepard declared.

" _Aye-aye, Commander._ "

Vancouver began to shrink as the Normandy lifted.

" _Shepard, you need to get off the liftgate,"_ Joker prompted.

Shepard nodded, but stayed where she was, squinting down at the beginnings of an evacuation movement. People swarmed and clustered. Something bright caught her eye, a flash of sun on something pale. She reached over unthinking, and pulled the rifle from the hands of the nearest rifleman in order to peer through the scope.

" _Shepard?_ "

She let her Collector beam hit the ground, put her foot on it to keep it from 'wandering off'—as the saying went. "Just a second, Joker. All hands to posts," she added, knowing she shouldn't be impeding their own exit, but unable to just look away. It was her first good look at the carnage, and she needed it.

She needed to remember it, in case her resolve ever wavered.

The glint of light again.

The reflect that caught her eye was the light bouncing off the little boy's head—the boy she'd found in the ventilation duct. He was filthy from head to foot, his white shirt reduced to a dismal, dingy grey. So, he'd got out of the building after all. He still had his little toy ship, clutched in both hands, the last familiar thing in a galaxy gone horribly wrong.

Shepard bit her lip, watched as three shuttles, Alliance blue MP vehicles, closed in on the boy's position—his and perhaps a dozen others', all adults.

A Reaper laser, accompanied by that horrible sinus-ratting sound, cut into one of the shuttles, sending it flying apart, peppering its fellows—and those on the ground—with shrapnel. Two of the adults on the ground did not rise from their efforts to avoid the debris.

The two surviving shuttles dropped to the ground more quickly than a driver might normally do, if only to get out of the Reapers' sights for a moment.

Her stomach clenched, her eyes darting around for to see which of the nearest Reapers seemed to be paying attention. Her mind said 'accidental fire' took down the first shuttle, a stray beam, perhaps even fired off in hopes of causing damage at some point.

The shuttles opened, pouring out MPs who began setting up a defensive line or hustling people into the shuttles for evacuation.

Shepard bit her lip as the little boy, his face a mask of determination, climbed unaided into one of the shuttles. She took in a breath she did not let out: one of the MPs slammed the shuttle door shut, waited for the other shuttle to fill, then pounded on the doors to both, letting the drivers know they was good to go.

The two shuttles stayed as close to the ground as possible for as long as possible, then rose into the air, clearly hoping to sprint out of range before they were noticed.

Shepard lowered the scope—she didn't need it, now, to follow the progress of the two shuttles.

She winced as a Reaper laser—this one with purpose—cut into the second shuttle, sawing it in half, narrowly missing the shuttle with the boy.

She moved to clamp a hand over her mouth, to stop the scream she felt building, but aborted the gesture. It was not one she wanted anyone else to see, not when those in command needed to seem unshakable. She compensated by clenching her teeth so tightly she was sure she could feel them fracturing from the pressure.

The Reaper that destroyed the second shuttle was aware of the one with the boy: the little vehicle exploded spectacularly, the Reaper's laser apparently hitting something critical. She thought it might have been a munitions store, rather than some component of the shuttle itself.

It didn't matter, she supposed: what mattered was that, of those two shuttles and some dozen people, there were no survivors. None. It was her first real look—a look with her own eyes rather than through eyes of long-dead Protheans, looks garbled with centuries, with too much data crammed into a human mind—at what Reapers could do when they arrived in person.

"Shepard," the gentle voice belonged to Alenko, as did the hand that took careful hold of her arm. "You can't do anything for them." He pulled until she stepped back, then took the borrowed rifle so she could claim her Collector weapon. "Joker, let's go."

Joker, remaining silent, closed the liftgate as the Normandy angled sharply upwards.

The crew had a momentary sense of 'being at an angle' before the ship's internal systems compensated, returning the sense of 'being on level ground.'

"You really can't," Alenko reinforced.

Shepard made herself look him in the face. "I know. But I needed to see it. Ladies, gentlemen, pick yourself a duty station and wait for orders."

"Hey," Vega's voice cut across the emptying cargo bay as he hurried in, looking around. "Where's Anderson? Where're we going?"

Shepard took a deep breath, glad of something immediate to occupy her attention. From the tone of Vega's voice he was not going to like the answer to either of those questions.


	38. Stopgap

Shepard turned sharply, with a ferocity Vega had never seen there before, as though the sleeping tiger had suddenly woken up, found itself strong, full of energy and, above all, _hungry_. "Mr. Vega, the only way you go back down there now is if I kick your ass out the airlock. You can _parachute_ back down there." Her voice was sharp, but more than that there was an implacable force, as though she had a steadying (or controlling) hand on his neck. "You can reroute from the Citadel. _Do_ you understand me?"

Vega bridled, but knew when a fight was lost. So _this_ was Shepard in her element. Even in the depths of feeling mutinous, he had to admit that _this_ was what he had expected from her.

"I asked you a question, marine."

"Yes ma'am." The words jumped out of him; failing to answer her seemed impossible. He grimaced, turned on his heel and stormed off.

"Joker, give me open comm, please."

And just like that, the pressure of personality lifted.

" _You got it, Commander."_

Shepard addressed herself to the nearest comm unit. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Shepard, Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. As you no doubt know, the Reapers have arrived _en force_ in the Sol System. With the blessing of Admiral Anderson, I am commandeering this ship and her crew. We will are currently _en route_ to the Citadel, where we will make contact with Alliance Command. I will keep you informed as the situation changes." Shepard shut down the comm. "EDI."

" _Yes, Shepard_?"

"Have we received more from Admiral Hackett?" Surely he'd had something up his sleeve. She'd seen the signs for months that _something_ was being done. Nowhere near as much as she would have liked, but _something_ …

"Try to establish communications with Arcturus once we drop out of FTL at the relay. We can afford a few minutes. If Hackett's alive, he'll be broadcasting _something_." Shepard licked her lips, adrenaline still pulsing in her veins. If he wasn't alive, she expected either someone else in the chain of command or—more likely—an autonomous broadcast for all Alliance personnel.

 _Something,_ stopgap orders or SOPs until the Fleet could rally and take stock of what they had.

"In the meantime," Alenko interrupted before handing Shepard a gauze pad soaked in antiseptic. Wincing, she began cleaning off her scrapes and scuffs. She hadn't realized how much minor damage she'd taken. "You think Arcturus is still there?"

"I don't know, Alenko." Shepard stopped cleaning her arm, seemed to withdraw so far into herself that Alenko produced a tube of medigel, popped it, and in a very businesslike manner, began to smear the clear gel over the abrasions. Shepard jumped and, except for remembering he had, at one time, been the team's medic, would have pulled away. "I don't know how the Reapers think."

It was, perhaps, best that Alenko did not answer at that moment. He certainly thought so.

"No, it's best if we go straight to the Citadel," Shepard affirmed, unthinkingly taking the medigel tube from him in order to anoint her other arm.

"Your stuff is here, by the way. Anderson had it moved back into the hold as soon as he could. Arms, armor, all of it."

Shepard exhaled relief. "Good—I didn't like the idea of running around in my BDUs while this mess is boiling over."

The master-at-arms' station was manned by a rather nervous fellow of square but light build, who'd been on the line of riflemen during the extraction.

"Relax, soldier," Shepard smiled grimly, finding the mesh underlay for her armor. "No one ever sees the _Normandy_ unless they're looking out a window. You're safer with her than with any other ship."

"Yes ma'am."

Alenko clapped Shepard on the shoulder. "I'll take stock of the crew, let you know what you've got."

Shepard nodded assent and gratitude before returning her attention to the soldier. "What's your name?"

"Steve Cortez," he nodded to the Kodiak, "shuttle pilot and sometimes master-at-arms." His mouth twitched, as though testing the waters to see if smiling was all right.

Shepard manufactured a smile. "Good to have you. And I'm not 'ma'am'—Shepard or Commander is fine." It felt strange being 'Commander.' Then again, the people who associated with her the most hadn't really gotten out of the habit, either.

She had to smirk at the semi-memorable occasion during which Vega had called her 'Commander' in front of someone—she didn't remember who or why. The 'someone' disapproved the use of rank—since she was not entitled to it—and expressed that view. Vega, exhibiting a glint of wicked humor, had laughed, shrugged and played the 'big dumb marine, declaring that _he_ thought 'Commander' was her _first name_.

He'd winked at her when the stuffy little weasel had slithered off and they'd shared a chuckle.

"Yes ma—Commander."

She forced herself back on track; it would be easy, now that they were relatively safe, for minds to wander, an attempt to find something more acceptable than reality. "You'll get used to it, Cortez. Do we have a place to secure the heavy weapons?"

"Absolutely."

"Let's get the load-out unpacked." She set her Collector rifle on the workstation, then frowned at it. "Got a place I can secure this?"

"Over here." Cortez did not take the weapon, merely opened a case built into the wall. In one of three foam-lined cells was a 'cutout' obviously meant to accommodate her alien weapon. From the look of things, the other two were for a standard-issue grenade launcher and a Cain.

She secured her weapon, watched Cortez add the grenade launcher, then close the door. There were other cells like that one built into the wall.

She approved the efficiency of it. She also approved moving the armory into the cargo bay—though what had taken the place of Jacob's workshop she didn't know and couldn't guess. Still, it was good to have arms and armor in a sensible place.


	39. Redirected

"Commander," EDI announced unexpectedly, "we are receiving an audio-only broadcast from Admiral Hackett. Shall I patch it through?"

Shepard looked up at the speaker, muscles tensing. "Yes."

Her 'ways and means committee'—Adams, Alenko, and several of the other officers who, by default, filled certain other needed positions—also stiffened as they waited for the bad news.

Hackett's broadcast was choppy, to say the least, almost unintelligible. "Say again, sir," Shepard repeated.

"…re-scrubbing broadcast…" EDI announced.

"… _Shepard, are you getting this?"_

"You're patchy, but we are receiving," Shepard responded.

" _Good_ … _sustaining heavy losses…force was overwhelming._ " Shepard did not have to suppress a rising tide of bitterness. There was no point being bitter, and 'overwhelming' was a word she'd used in conjunction with Reapers for a long time. "… _no way we can defeat them conventionally._ "

"Luckily most species have unconventional warfare divisions." She did not have much faith in a think tank, but recognized this as the viewpoint of one who was not, generally, _in_ the think tanks. "We're en route to Arcturus—"

"… _directive is too important. I need you to report to—"_

"Hackett?" Shepard could not stop the rise in her voice as the uplink seemed to sever. It reconnected a moment later, carrying the sounds of a ship in chaos. "We'll report to the Citadel unless—"

" _Negative!_ " For a moment Shepard and her cohorts had an uninterrupted, if patchy, stream of orders, shouts, and one or two screams.

It sounded, from context, as if Hackett was trying to evacuate Arcturus, or deal with the post-evacuation chaos, and his 'space junk' comment was simply a prediction. Which meant he was on a portable comm-unit, bouncing his signal off a larger communications array.

"… _Prothean archive on Mars_!" Hackett yelled, his voice loud with the control of a seasoned officer containing a crisis. " _Before we lose control of the system—_ "

"Understood." Except for the Archive there, Mars was not a strategic target. Not like Arcturus or Vancouver, or half a dozen other places within Alliance space.

The connection fluxed, yielded only static and garbled words, then cut out altogether.

Ominous silence filled the space formerly occupied by the static, broken only when Shepard calmly began to issue directives. _"_ Joker, re-route us to Mars. Alenko, grab Vega and armor up. Mr. Cortez, please see to the loadouts."

A chorus of 'yes ma'am,' and the two men departed. Shepard mindlessly issued further orders, set up a temporary chain of command with Joker at the top.

" _Hell of a show, huh?_ " Joker asked.

"Hell of a show," Shepard agreed, leaning on the table in the war room as she took a moment to re-collect herself. Her head still ached and she wasn't sure there was an OTC painkiller strong enough to do anything about it. "How'd you get here so fast?" It had not, for a moment, struck her as odd to have Joker in the pilot seat. Now, she relived, it should have done so.

" _Oh, Commander, it's those Cerberus VIs! They're_ so _picky about who's calling the shots. Security and stuff. You know."_

"I do know," Shepard agreed, taking the hints in spite of Joker's overly careless tone. That explained why EDI hadn't been carved out like a tumor. She'd worried for the AI, periodically, but trusted that EDI could manage. Not hearing anything about EDI was a comfort to her, during her confinement: no news was good news. Otherwise she'd have been up on the carpet about the illegal AI integrated into her ship.

She smirked grimly: quite a few people hadn't liked her usage of 'my ship.'

Alenko and Vega were almost fully armored by the time she arrived. Vega still looked sullen, but did his best to hide it, clearly assuming that if he gave her guff she would leave him aboard ship. "I don't like leaving, either," Shepard admitted as she opened the case with her name stenciled on the outside. It wasn't here when she'd come aboard, which meant someone had dug it out (though she suspected Alenko had lent a hand in moving it).

"So what's on Mars?" Vega asked.

"Not sure—Hackett wants us at the Archives, so we're going to the Archives," Shepard responded.

"Wish he'd told us what to look for. That place is huge," Alenko shook his head.

Shepard caught him cast a covert look in her direction and thought she knew what it was about. "Well, maybe we'll luck out and it'll be corporeal and obvious." Her longstanding association with Prothean tech—more accurately, in interfacing with it—made her reluctant to go anywhere near a major hoard of Prothean data…but orders were orders and, whether she liked it or not, she was Alliance again.

Kind of.

The persistent battle between 'Alliance Marine' and 'Citadel Spectre' had finally begun again. That was one of the few things she'd enjoyed—though she'd never admitted it—about working with Cerberus: she was there to do a job. It didn't matter to whom she owed salutes.

"Hope so," Alenko responded.

He wasn't the only one.

Shepard took her time armoring up—since the suit was new—then proceeded methodically through the process of shrugging on and packing up her web gear, picking her loadout. She needed the slowness, the cold calm of making decisions about what was necessary, what was likely to be useful, and what she could live without.

By the time she was ready—and had made sure her ground team carried extra water and ration bars—she felt relatively better. Her mindset was clearer and her headache had eased.

" _All right, ground team,_ " Joker announced to the silent pack of marines, _"ETA five minutes. Scans indicate no Reaper presence—lucky us_. _Problem, though._ "

"What kind of problem?" Shepard demanded.

" _EDI's scans are showing vehicles and what look like a couple of troop transports outside the facility._ "

"I take it they aren't ours. Any identifying marks?"

" _Posssssssibly_ …"

Which told Shepard all she needed to know about who was down there.


	40. Fight and Flight

Liara had, by this point, come to understand something about soldiers. It started as an inkling when she served her first 'tour'—and she sometimes called it that—with Shepard aboard the _Normandy_. It matured during the time she'd spent with Shepard's crew, while chasing the Shadow Broker.

Or maybe it was just having hung around Shepard, a career soldier with more combat experience than Liara could imagine, relative to their ages. On multiple occasions, Shepard had exhibited an almost preternatural sense of things. She'd stop just before an ambush, she'd pause and reissue orders moments before the new orders became the proper solution. That was without identifying feints or bluffs. She wasn't always correct, but the percentage of accurate prediction was heavily in her favor.

Liara knew what it was _now_ : experience. Experience and micro flashbacks, like the background processes present in any computer. Unseen, they clicked, triggered events, resolved errors, kept everything running smoothly…most of the time.

It was this thought that brought her to her feet unexpectedly, tense as though she'd heard someone shout for her. Someone, somewhere, had slammed a door open. Doors slammed from time to time, but something about _this time_ sent adrenaline dumping into her veins.

Her eyes _saw_ a bulky shape in white armor—Cerberus armor, she realized—but her mind _screamed_ that this was a krogan, an angry krogan, yanking the flap of her tent on Therum open. Her push was weak, just as it had been on Therum.

This time though, she didn't scream, though she swore she heard an echo of her younger self cry out. Fear tried to rise as the memory played out, but it was immediately superseded by anger, white-hot and mind cleansing. She was _not_ a little girl anymore.

Her _pull_ brought the soldier crashing _through_ the corridor wall to land sprawling at her feet. She resisted the urge to throw him around with her biotics—she would need to save resources—opting to free her sidearm and let several rounds punch into his face.

Thank goodness she'd taken Shepard's advice seriously! _From here on in, stay armed: home, work, wherever. You don't want_ them _to catch you with your pants down._

She probably would have employed it _without_ Shepard's recommendation; she'd grown used to having a weapon to hand, but it seemed almost habit to praise her quasi-mentor's usually common sense advice.

She frowned at the Cerberus soldier, knew there would be more. The sounds of screams and gunfire came to her, bringing the realization that Cerberus was cleaning out the Archives, and that she would be a high-priority target. The Illusive Man might or might not _know_ with certainty that she was on Mars now…but it was safe to assume he did.

That meant there would be a shoot-on-sight order with her name in the blank.

She was not a child to run and hide and hope for rescue. She did need to run, however, and hiding—temporarily—was not a bad idea. "Glyph."

The imperturbable VI shell bobbed up to her. "Yes, Dr. T'Soni?"

"Plot me a course to the main shuttle bay," she declared. "Route it to my omnitool."

"Of course. Would you like the fastest route or the most direct route?"

A Cerberus operative strode past the door, stopped and had a moment to look at Liara before she warped him into a bloody pulp. "Preferable the fastest—but I won't argue with sufficient cover, either."

Cerberus. But how had they gotten in? And armed soldiers at that! It meant that the security teams had to be dead—dead or bottled up somewhere. She couldn't count on them for help, but if she found them she certainly wouldn't say 'no' to it…

Sleeper agents, then? The Archives were not undefended.

Her stomach went cold, then bubbled with acid. _Damn_ them!

"There is an access duct for ventilation nearby," Glyph declared as Liara slunk up to the doorway, peering around the corner carefully. "If you can reach it, you can navigate to the main shuttle bay from there."

"Stay close," she growled, checking her omnitool.

 _Worry about the next twenty meters._ The sharp command didn't seem to belong to any particular memory, but the words smacked of her time on the _Normandy_ , when she'd been uncertain in combat, unsteady in 'hot' zones.

Not anymore, and thank goodness for that.

She came around the doorframe, halfway through the mnemonic for a singularity. The attack was so sudden it caught the small patrol—four men—unawares and unprepared.

It did not catch the turret, which swung around and opened fire. She yelped, raising her barrier with a speed that did credit to her last few years of living with danger and under threat. She managed to push it over, smiled grimly as it fired erratically…right into the singularity-suspended Cerberus drones.

She started forward hurriedly, making for the duct that Glyph had identified as the safest fast way to the main shuttle bay. She cast about, reached into the nearest office for a chair and positioned it under the duct. Hurriedly, she jammed her pistol into her belt, opened the duct, and ordered Glyph in ahead of her. He would provide some light.

She'd just got both feet onto the chair, was ready to haul herself into the duct, when voices caught her attention. She crouched, almost kneeling on the chair, and watched four Cerberus drones—was there no end to them?!—come around the corner.

The gunfire from the turret must have caught their attention. So there she was, her hands already caught on the edge of the duct, ready to lever herself up and into the invisible navigation route. The moment of frozen surprise rendered them all thoroughly absurd.

She didn't waste time. She was committed. She jumped, banging her head on the top of the duct, lurched over with her legs sticking out of the shaft for a moment before she slithered forward on her elbows, then on hands and knees.


	41. Compromised

"Will you look at that…"

Alenko turned to see what held Vega's attention. The dust storm rearing up in the distance looked impressive, but this was not his first time seeing one. He squinted, cocked his head, then responded, "Pretty average for Mars, actually."

Vega cast him a baleful look. "I'm glad you're so optimistic. Sir."

Shepard made a sound like a sneeze, but her helmet kept Alenko from seeing what her expression was. "You know, we've got Reapers invading Earth, the facility here's offline…a little dust storm seems to be the least of our worries."

After a moment, Vega snorted, "Fair enough." It even sounded like he meant it.

Alenko mentally shook himself; being back in action with Shepard—and with a new, untested, unknown variable of a crewman—left him feeling distinctly off balance.

"Hey," Shepard called softly, sliding down a short ladder and moving to crouch near a body, crumpled as if dispatched before the accosting party moved on. There were certainly the marks of several pairs of feet in the dust.

"What's that?" Vega jumped down the embankment to join Shepard.

Shepard knelt, waved her omnitool, then pout two fingers through holes in the soldier's suit. "Looks like a Sgt. Reeves."

"Didn't put up a fight before he died," Alenko noted.

"There's some bad voodoo out here…" Vega announced.

"Yeah." Shepard's tone indicated that she was not really surprised to find a dead Alliance serviceman here. "We're not alone here."

"The vehicles Joker said he saw?" Alenko frowned at Shepard. He couldn't see most of her face, but something in her tone suggested meant she knew more than she was letting on. "What'd he tell you?" Alenko remembered Joker's response to Shepard's question of whether the vehicles had markings: ' _posssssibly._ ' A cold feeling, heavy like a stone, settled in the pit of Alenko's stomach.

"We should keep moving." The evasion was obvious. Or, Alenko reflected, perhaps it was only obvious to him. Vega didn't seem perturbed by the suggestion, or maybe he took it on faith that Shepard would have shared what she knew, if she knew anything. "Keep your heads down until we know what's what."

"Roger that," Vega agreed, creeping up on Shepard's heels as she began to move.

He hadn't needed long to decide that Vega was about as loyal as a guard dog to anyone he chose to give that loyalty to and, clearly, Shepard had it. That was one of Shepard's things: she had a way of inspiring people to follow her.

His brooding thoughts were interrupted by Shepard's hiss of 'heads up!'

All three of them dropped behind cover, Alenko and Vega moving forward by degrees until the three marines crouched behind stone outcroppings on the same general plane.

Alenko raised his rifle, peered through the scope as Shepard was doing.

His heart fell to his knees then re-routed to his ankles. Every piece of heavy equipment, even the soldiers, were plastered with the Cerberus colors and insignias. He glanced at Shepard, tense as she peered downrange.

Several things happened in quick succession: Alenko noticed that several Alliance servicemen, kneeling with hands behind their heads. Vega gave a 'holy shit!' of shock followed by a burst of fire from Shepard. Through his scope, he watched one of the Cerberus soldiers collapse, suit depressurizing. It took him a moment to find his finger and relocate it to the trigger—longer than it took Vega to do the same.

Vega, though, did not have to contend with the sudden surge of doubt and a nameless fear that Shepard's controlled bursts of fire did nothing to dispel.

Cerberus was here. So was Shepard. He got up, changed positions and resumed fire. The parody of leapfrog between bastions of cover was so ingrained it required no communication to begin. He'd managed to dispel some of his fears about whether this really was Shepard through sheer stubbornness ever since Horizon.

Now, though, when she and Cerberus were in the same place, when Cerberus was present in strength and Shepard had only two other people with her…

He wasn't afraid of treachery…but the situation caused him unease, nonetheless.

"They're Cerberus, aren't they?" Vega asked, once the unit gained the now-dead Cerberus detachment's position.

"Looks like," Shepard responded dispassionately, frowning down at one of the corpses.

"What are they doing here on Mars?" Alenko asked.

Shepard must have known this was a direct question aimed at her, not a general question tossed out as idle curiosity. When she spoke, her tone was carefully neutral. "Good question."

"You don't know?"

This time she turned to face him, her eyes narrowed in disapproval—no, not 'disapproval.' Her eyes were narrowed in _reproach_. "I'm not with them anymore, Alenko, if that's what you're driving at." And she did not succeed in keeping the testiness out of her voice.

Vega moved to stand by Shepard's shoulder, also scowling behind his visor.

"It wasn't," Alenko responded, "but you have to admit, it's pretty convenient."

"Convenient…?" Shepard repeated, as if picking out an item of interest from a heap of refuse. "Of course it is," she muttered bitterly, as comprehension dawned. She turned, skirting around one of the heavy rovers.

Vega immediately turned to follow her, "Doesn't look like they came in force."

"No, it doesn't," Shepard responded. "What do you think? Thirty guys?"

"Forty, tops. Depends on how tight they packed them in there," Vega nodded to the rovers. "And whether they used shuttles, too."

"No way they could have taken the facility with anything less than a full battalion." The Archive was, after all, an important find, both because of its historical significance and its practical uses. "They had inside help," Alenko weighed in, trying to keep neutral.

"That's the Cerberus MO," Shepard answered.

Alenko began to wish they still had Reapers shooting at them. At least he knew, without doubt, where everyone stood. He couldn't let go of his worries, his suspicions…but it made him feel criminal to entertain them.


	42. Strained

Shepard gritted her teeth as the monster called 'mistrust' reared its ugly head, looming over her. She could see that Alenko had something to say—something _more_ to say—but was trying to figure out how to word it. At least, she thought bitterly, he was _trying_ to be tactful.

He wasn't ready to give up on the Cerberus thing. As much as she tried to understand his position…she was getting heartily tired of him. Tali, Garrus, Joker, Dr. Chakwas…they'd trusted her motives.

And they'd never claimed to love her.

Iron Mike Yamada's voice echoed in her head the one time a student 'gave up': _ask for no quarter. Probably won't get it. I, your friend. Only beat you a little. Out there? Your enemy. They beat you a lot. Ask no quarter._

Ask no quarter.

The dusty sand that gave Mars its nickname—the Red Planet—coagulated quickly, covering the soldiers to the knee in a light powdering of rusty dust.

They reached the airlock—which, surprisingly, was little more than a room with lift in it to afford access to the next level. Great defense, Shepard acknowledged as she hacked into the system and sealed the airlock. She could feel Alenko watching her; it gave her a squeamish sense of discomfort she found highly distracting.

"Keep your helmets on, just in case there're any other cute tricks waiting for us," she declared practically. Perhaps, she thought, this insistence on helmets had more to do with her own fear of being unable to breathe than fear of Cerberus surprises. The thought 'unable to breathe' made her tense nervously, inhale deeply several times as though to assure herself that her fear was irrational, that there was plenty of air to keep her lungs happy.

"Shepard, I need a straight answer," Alenko began.

Shepard did not say it, but she certainly thought it: _oh, here we go._ She wished Cerberus troops would just drop down the shaft and start shooting. She'd prefer bullets to anything requiring the preface 'I need a straight answer.'

…and then she realized that part of this came from being out of the habit of dealing with people in general. She hadn't been in solitary, exactly, but most of the people she interacted with frequently were of her party when it came to Reapers, trusted that she would use any well-funded organization she had to in order to thwart them without, necessarily, granting her loyalty.

Cerberus was simply the organization open to the idea and the one with the most credits.

She'd forgotten, or allowed herself to forget, that anyone not on the frontline of this war—now fully-blown and unassailably real—wouldn't have this rather cutthroat attitude. 

And maybe, _maybe_ , the mistrust might have a grain of fear in it—fear for her.

The idea that there might be something well-meant in there did not alleviate her irritation. She did clamp down on it though, recognizing the irascible irrationality of several of the 'could've, should've, would've' litany that followed.

This was why military relationships did not hold up…

"Alenko," she wasn't sure what she meant to say, but her tone said it all: _do we really have to discuss this here? Now?_

"Don't 'Alenko' me, this is business," he returned flatly.

"What _else_ would it be?" she asked, sharpening the 'else.' Alenko was about to have a horrible case of loose lips; the motive behind the questions was none of James Vega's business. Or anyone else's.

Alenko caught the hint, was silent for a moment as he rephrased his question. "Do you know _anything_ about why Cerberus is here?"

"No, Alenko, I _don't_ ," Shepard responded flatly. "And at one point my word would have been good enough." It was a cheap shot, but it was an honest one.

"And at one point you'd have understood my concern," came the rather prim response. "Hell, you'd have agreed with me about it."

It stung and Shepard felt it. "Then I guess we're way past that 'one point.'" It was spiteful and she knew it. She clamped her jaws together, took a deep breath. This wasn't helping. "It's hard to fight Collectors by throwing rocks at them. And I had to do _something_."

Alenko seemed to think they were regaining lost ground. "There's more to it, isn't there? They rebuilt you from the ground up, gave you a ship, resources—"

"I _used_ them," Shepard spat, "and broke it off once the immediate threat was quelled. I have had _no_ further communications with them."

"Commander Shepard has been under surveillance twenty-four hours a day since the day she surrendered herself into Alliance custody," Vega interjected flatly. "No way she's had _any_ kind of communication with Cerberus since then." His declaration was so flat that, in a fair world, it would have squelched all further discussion of the subject.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Shepard nodded to Vega, who nodded back. It was nice to have someone to offer evidence on her behalf.

There was an awkward moment as Shepard found and cued the airlock to pressurize.

To Shepard's surprise, the world proved fair, for once: "Sorry, Shepard." The apology blundered out of Alenko's mouth like a clumsy drunk staggering out of a bar. "I-It's just…" he seemed to sense the lameness of his own apology and cut if off.

"You don't have to trust _me_ ," Shepard declared as she fingered, but didn't release, the seals on her suit. "Just trust that my mission hasn't changed." That was, in many ways, an easier thing to trust in—less volatile, too.

"I do, I didn't mean—"

Shepard up held a hand as Alenko stopped talking. "Hear that?" It was dull, an odd clunking noise, very faint. She might have missed it, had being 'rebuilt' not corrected the ringing in her ears.

"Ducts," Alenko declared, stepping off to one side.

The three marines took cover, most of them glad for something that distracted from the tension.

After all, one could shoot the enemy.


	43. The Good News, the Bad News

"The ducts!" Shepard barked, raising her rifle, but keeping her finger off the trigger. The hair on her neck rose up as Alenko's biotics flared.

Loud bangs, and suddenly the grate leading to the ventilation ducts was kicked out, admitting a small, blue drone and followed by a lithe blue someone.

Liara. The drone bobbed away from her as Liara stood up, backed away, and watched, her fist glowing with dark energy. A second later, she ripped the duct free of the ceiling, the metal wrenching. The broken duct disgorged its contents, her pursuers, whom she sent flying across the room with a vicious swipe, letting them slam into the wall before yanking them back to crash into the ground within pistol range. Her expression one of disgust and triumph, she unloaded two rounds to each head, a nice, neat double tap that Shepard approved.

Then she turned and jumped.

Vega took two steps forward, scowling down the line of his rifle.

"Easy, LT," Shepard said, putting out a hand to push the barrel towards the ground, "she's one of ours."

"If you say so," he muttered, eyes going to the drone, which zipped and bobbed about as if looking for the best vantage point.

Shepard, recognizing the drone, ignored it. It wasn't a combat model.

"Shepard!" Liara strode forward and, heedless of Shepard's rifle, gave the marine a brief, one-armed hug. "It's good to see you. Alenko." She didn't hug him, but gave him her hand and a wry sort of smile. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you. Hackett redirected—" Shepard paused when Liara's expression became truly bewildered. "Liara… _they're_ here." Shepard couldn't stop the involuntary swallow as the magnitude of the statement hit her. It was bad enough seeing them, live and in person, but it was nearly as bad to tell someone else, someone who _knew_ that the sum of all fears had finally happened.

And how like Liara, the thought was fond but rueful, to be so busy with whatever she was doing to miss the big robots invading the system. The thought struck her as funny, but paradoxically made her want to cry.

She'd better get used to saying this sort of thing, she chastened herself sharply. Bursting into tears or giving way to hysterics or tremors would _not_ send the appropriate messages.

"What?" Liara's face turned pale, her eyes growing large. "When?"

Shepard shook her head. "The last few hours. I've lost track of time." It was true, and she couldn't bear to find out exactly how much time. She knew she would fall into the pit of trying to estimate how many people a Reaper could kill per minute per machine…and that without reckoning ground troops…

"They hit Earth hard?" Liara asked, clearly shaken that she hadn't heard about this until that moment.

"Yeah." Shepard's clipped word contained the entire book of _Reapers: The Nightmare Come True_.

"It was…bad," Alenko put in bleakly. "Hard to leave."

Liara's expression grew stricken. Nevertheless, she swallowed and forced herself to return to matters at hand. "But why are you _here_? Not that I'm complaining."

"Hackett ordered us here." Shepard said nothing more, merely waited.

"And you hoped I might know what was going on?" Liara asked. "Well, I do."

"Hallelujah, some answered. Fially," Vega grumbled, shaking his head and casting about nervously.

" _Maybe_ ," Liara corrected.

"Wanna fill us in while things're still quiet?" Shepard asked briskly.

"I'll give you the short version: I discovered plans for a Prothean device, one that could wipe out the Reapers."

Liara's statement was met with ringing silence, and Shepard knew her own cynicism was showing. How could it not? Give her a little time to adjust to the fact that her nightmares had suddenly become _everyone's_ nightmares…then she could be a little more hopeful about Prothean tech.

But right now…with everything so fresh…

The Protheans were _dead_. The Reapers were _here_.

"I know it's hard," Liara offered, "something like that, here, under the Alliance's nose. I only found it through process of elimination and a little desperation, though. It wasn't exactly labeled 'Reaper Destruction Device.'" The joke fell flat on flayed nerves.

"Go on," Shepard responded, trying to wipe the cynicism off her face. The thought 'answer right under our noses' hadn't suggested itself until Liara voiced it. What she wouldn't have given for it to be found earlier? It would have validated her claims, the Alliance, everyone, would have been forced to accept and prepare…

…but, she had to admit, now that the Reapers were here, any conventional preparation seemed about as useful as conventional weapons. She tried to comfort herself with the thought that _any_ preparation was better than none…but it didn't work.

"I…made myself available to the Alliance as an agent of the Shadow Broker. With access to his resources, and my own background in Prothean studies, I quickly became quite the asset. When I asked, Admiral Hackett authorized me to come here to see what I could learn." Liara teetered. "I did mean to come see you…but I thought you'd prefer action to awkward conversation."

"I do, thanks," Shepard nodded. "Do you have this data?"

"Unfortunately no…" Liara shifted from foot to foot. "I was in the research center when Cerberus arrived. The data itself is in the Archive."

"We'll get it. Lock and load," Shepard declared, checking her rifle out of habit. "Vega. Head back to the shuttle."

"What?" he demanded, indignant and looking ready to be truly insubordinate. "Why?"

"If Cerberus beats us to the Archives, I need you covering the exits. Once they know we're here, they may try to loop back and take out our ride."

"But—"

" _Lieutenant._ " Shepard declared firmly, catching his gaze and holding it. "Go watch our ride."

Mutinously, Vega obeyed.

Liara waited until he vanished from sight. "Fresh materials?"

"Yep. Just need to break him in a little," Shepard answered blandly. "Come on. Time's wasting. You can tell us about this device on the go."


	44. The Next Twenty Meters

Sweat poured down Alenko's face, wept from every pore of his body, as if to compensate for the tears not falling from his eyes.

Focus on the next twenty meters.

The reality of the Reaper invasion seemed to flux in and out of his mind, like a fluorescent light about to go out, and with the same result: he could feel the tension that heralded a migraine building. It was something he did _not_ need right now.

Focus on the next twenty meters.

Cerberus was everywhere, in little five- or seven-man clusters, heavily armored, heavily armed. He only half-heard Liara's 'the Protheans have the answer' explanations. His attention remained sharp for enemy activity…but seemed to minimize everything in favor of entertaining internal turmoil.

His parents lived in Vancouver…

His eyes fell on Shepard. She moved with a mechanical precision that seemed almost…almost as if the situation didn't touch her. But that wasn't right, he decided. The movements were a little too controlled, a little too tight. The situation touched her a little too much: she'd had home and family burned out from under her once before, had fought so hard to keep millions, billions of people from knowing that exact same pain, the fear, the helplessness…and it hadn't worked.

His own accusation 'are we talking about the colonists or _you_?' echoed in his head. He had his answer now. He'd had it months ago, really. It was a pain she knew intimately, and how could anyone who knew her doubt whether she'd want to spare anyone else that same pain?

It made him wonder about the Bahak system. Somehow…he could only see desperation, an absolute last-ditch effort. Even Shepard didn't hate batarians enough to butcher an entire colony, some several hundreds of thousands of people.

Focus on the next twenty meters.

His thoughts stopped, all attention switching to the Cerberus blockade. They knew they were being chewed on from behind, had finally sent troops to double back and try to stop the incursion. From the sounds of it, they didn't realize who'd been leading the strike team.

Whatever else, Shepard didn't seem to have any trouble carving her way through Cerberus' troops. She was clinical about it: they were in her way, they wouldn't get _out_ of her way, so she'd just step over their cooling corpses.

The cold pragmatism made him uneasy, and he wondered if it was because he'd grown sensitive to it because he'd been away from her for so long. He remembered her having a pragmatic streak, a logical streak that was sometimes cold…it was what had cost the Citadel the _Destiny Ascension_ , but which had bought what she thought the best chance for _Sovereign's_ destruction. The decision had yielded a victory, whatever complaints were filed later. He remembered the pragmatism, but his memories tended to center on the fact that she'd been remarkably compassionate, a trait people rarely associated with her. She was a fighter, didn't hesitate to bring armed force to the table…but she'd negotiate where she could, even when she'd rather use her gun.

He wondered how many of his memories had grown soft and fuzzy, like a child's security blanket that wore and frayed and grew soft until it finally fell apart, leaving only a memory of soft-to-the-touch comfort.

Focus on the next twenty meters.

His parents were in Vancouver. Had his dad taken his advice to prepare for an invasion—an _alien_ invasion, no less?

Had his mom heeded his urging to learn how to use a handgun, and then find one that suited her?

Or had he come across as raving, infected with Commander Shepard's brand of crazy?

He really _had_ to focus on the next twenty meters.

He could still hear the horrible mechanical tone the Reapers sent out, the demoralizing scream—'like the scream of the damned' as someone once said—reverberating in his memory the way the actual sound reverberated in all his soft tissues.

It gave him something else to worry about: Indoctrination. How long did it take? How much exposure? His eyes slid to Shepard's lithe form again. He'd read the reports she'd submitted to the Alliance—as one of the soldiers there when things started, as her first contact with the Alliance when she still wore Cerberus colors, he was someone who 'needed to know.' She'd been exposed to Reapers and Reaper tech.

He could handle watching her for Cerberus connections. The idea that he'd have to watch her for signs of Indoctrination…

Well, she was putting up a hell of a fight _now_. And she'd never deviated from 'we have to stop them!', never given ground on the matter. _Never_.

But…the thought wrung at him, bringing the first twinges of actual _pain_. He fumble din his web gear, found his pills—why hadn't he taken them earlier?—tore open the packet and popped them dry.

He _really_ needed to focus on the next twenty meters.

He glanced at Liara, her expression hard, so different from the girl he'd met on Therum. He knew she'd 'grown up' but he'd never seen her in combat since then. Now he had, and he could see that he'd underestimated her, relied on old memories. She was stronger, fiercer, less hesitant when it came time to _act_. She, at least, had a personal interest in slamming Cerberus' goons about: she acted as if each of them was responsible for some personal affront, and that if she could mow through enough of them she could make her grievance known, felt, and exact atonement from Cerberus as a whole.

He wondered what they could have done to evoke that kind of disgust. Because it was disgust, he realized, and not genuine hatred. It comforted him a little. Hate was an emotion he would rather not see on her pretty blue face; it would shatter all his memories of her, and he had enough things shattering today.

He needed to focus on the next twenty meters.

He just wished he could.


	45. In the Shadows

The room was dark, dark and full of bodies. This time, though, they were civilians.

Shepard's stomach quivered, but a temporary callousness—or defense against pain in wake of the arrival of true horrors—kept her calm and focused. It was obvious what had killed all these people: Cerberus had opened the airlocks, vented the room. Neat, efficient, brutal—even, as Liara pointed out grimly, by Cerberus' standards.

One minute they'd been on a lunch break, the next minute…

Shepard clamped down on the thought.

Cerberus bastards.

What was the Illusive Man up to? And, bitterly, had he waited for the Reapers to show up, or had their arrival been timely? Chaos was a good way to hide one's actions until it was too late…

…for Liara, it very nearly had been.

For these scientists, researchers…it was.

Damn him.

Shepard bit her lip, the question she associated most with Cerberus rising with the bile in her throat: how many human lives had to be sacrificed before it was enough?

The Illusive Man's voice echoed in her mind: _as many as is necessary. Sacrifice is necessary in time of war._

Except, came her own savage rejoinder, he wasn't the one making sacrifices. He just pushed the button to ensure others did.

"Shepard?" Liara asked gently.

"Where's the nearest security checkpoint?" Shepard demanded.

"On the other side of those shutters," she pointed to the far side of the room. "What do you want to bet there's company, waiting?"

"If there is, they don't have live feeds any more than we do," Shepard answered calmly. "Any way around?"

"It'd be faster to go through the shutters…but I don't like charging in blind," Alenko declared, crossing his arms and frowning.

"Then we don't," Shepard answered, simply. "Shutters are on our side; that means there's a control pad on our side. We'll see if I can bypass it, then you two bombard anyone on the other side from a distance."

"That puts you awfully close when the shooting starts," Liara protested.

Shepard smiled. "Funny thing about the loadout…" she reached down, touched the stealth field generator on her belt. "Anderson made sure I had _all_ my toys. Worry about the shutters. I'll worry about not getting shot."

She didn't wait for protest—there was no better plan, and speed was necessary. She ducked and hurried to the shutters, flattening herself against the wall by the access pad. She frowned as she slipped her rifle into her weapons rack: the panel was intact. But closing the shutters wouldn't have saved the scientists…nor would opening them again, since there was plastiglass, presumably, on the other side. A fist wouldn't break plastiglass.

So why shut the shutters? So they wouldn't have to watch the scientists die of exposure?

Shepard bit her lip, flayed the drying surface.

It wasn't much better to wonder if there was another, technical or logistical, reason.

She mothballed the thought, opening her omnitool as she considered the console. She looked up when she was done, the light of the omnitool ruining her nightvision. She couldn't see Liara and Alenko, the latter of whom had turned off the light fixture on his weapon. She held up a hand, counted back from five, her free hand snaking to her web gear, and her tactical cloak.

She just hoped the Alliance had been able to make it more effective, and wondered—not for the first time—how Kasumi's got to be so reliable.

Her skin crawled as she vanished from sight, the shutters opening as she dropped low to the ground and began to scuttle into the nearest blind spot. She couldn't see them, but she could hear the troopers on the other side of the window, muffled and surprised by the sudden rolling back of the shutters.

Alenko and Liara both hesitated for a moment, clearly unable to see the faint distortion the stealth unit caused, but the hesitation was momentary. For this moment they had Cerberus at a disadvantage, looking from a place of light into a place of darkness.

Shepard looped back, putting space between her and the troopers, giving herself a clear line of fire. Her omnitool manufactured an incineration mine—she wished the stealth field didn't mess with the workings of active tech mines—and she drew back her right hand to throw it, her left hand on the generator to turn it off. It was a split-second lag between the two movements, the press of a switch and the pitch of the time, but under biotic bombardment the Cerberus unit—already down by three—had no room left to take in surprise appearances.

In seconds, charred and biotically pummeled, the security checkpoint lay free, unguarded, accessible. She was the first into the room, vaulting over the shattered plastiglass window frame.

The security team—a one-man team, Shepard thought grimly—that should have been manning the post was dead. "I don't think this unit killed the security guy," Shepard announced as Alenko, then Liara, climbed through the damaged glass.

"Why's that?" Alenko asked.

"Because he was shot in the back, close range, double tap," Shepard answered. "And then moved." The evidence was in the blood spatter, the position of the wound, and the way the man now lay crumpled on the floor, pulled aside and allowed to fall wherever gravity took him.

Damn the Illusive Man and his sleeper agents. It couldn't be anything else: the guard hadn't expected a bullet, he knew whoever came in behind him.

"Can you find security footage?" Alenko asked, looming over her shoulder.

Shepard frowned as she worked. "Here."

They watched as the woman Liara identified as Dr. Core came up behind the guard, shot him, accessed the console, locked down the security protocols and vented the cafeteria behind them.

The sad part, Shepard thought bitterly, was that it all made sense. "We need to step it up," she declared flatly. Cerberus' goons were nothing if not efficient.

It was like Eden Prime all over again.


	46. Broken Glass

Liara thumped a fist on the console. "The Archives are on a completely separate network—we're totally locked out!"

Shepard closed her eyes, her hands flat on the console, clearly trying to bully her brain into something up with something, _anything_.

"Maybe we should try something simple," Alenko mused. "Those guys don't seem too bright."

"So?" Shepard asked. It was as close to a leading question as he would get.

"So, we get ahold of a helmet radio. Either they'll know we're not who we say we are and come to do something about it—bringing a tram with them—or they'll fall for it and send a tram to get us." It was a long shot, but that was about all they had…and he didn't want to try traversing the tram rail by pretending it was a kind of schoolyard jungle gym.

Shepard opened her mouth, then shut it again. "It's worth a try," she agreed, nodding.

He nodded back, looped around to the last patrol. At any other time, he would have called this sheer stupidity…but the marks of desperation were beginning to show on every face. The Reapers would surely, _surely_ send scouts, at the very least, to any human-held outpost in the system. Sooner or later…they'd be here, too. _Especially_ if they knew Prothean ruins were involved.

He knelt, found the toggles on the nearest corpse's head and dragged the obscuring shell away. "Shepard!" he couldn't stop the reflexive shout.

She came at a run, weapon drawn, ready to open fire. She followed his gaze to the corpse, stepped around so she could see what he was seeing.

" _Ugh_." She didn't sound surprised.

She set her weapon on the floor and crouched beside him, taking the Cerberus operative's face in her and hand tilting his head this way and that.

"He looks like a husk." Alenko swallowed hard, glanced at Shepard's profile, what he could see of it past her helmet: the high cheek bones, the eyebrows currently furrowed, her bright eyes narrowed speculatively.

"They've definitely done _something_ to him," she said, letting the man's head fall back and sitting on her heels.

She was so dispassionate about it, so unaffected that he wondered if she'd finally seen enough to be disgusted but not really shocked…or if she _expected_ something like this.

"They did this to their own guy?"

"Looks like." She heaved a heavy sigh, made to run her fingers though her hair and growled as her helmet got in the way. She cracked her neck instead.

"Is that what they did to you?" The question jumped out because the thought was so unbearable. There were stories circulating about how she'd gotten from suffocating in space to fighting Collectors, but no one seemed to agree on how she—how Cerberus—had done it.

Anderson maintained she was a medical miracle, a one in a billion chance. He maintained that he believed it when she said she was dead…and the look on his face when it came up was one of compassion, as if that reality was harder on Shepard than on anyone else.

Shepard's sharp answer broke through his preoccupation. "How can you compare _me_ with _that_?"Her eyes flashed behind her visor in genuine, shocked offense.

He should keep his mouth shut. He _knew_ he should keep his mouth shut…

He wasn't sure what he needed to hear from her, only that there was _something_. "Look, I don't know what you are, or who." It came out wrong. It was true, but it wasn't supposed to sound like an accusation. He'd been with her in a hundred fights, but memory didn't prepare him for what she was _now_ : fierce, unstoppable, tenacious, yes—all those things were Shepard. But there was something else, a cutting edge, a sharpness he didn't remember. "Not since Cerberus rebuilt you."

Shepard's expression grew truly _angry_. For a moment, he wondered if she wasn't going to put some of her N7 grappling techniques to good use. She looked angry enough to put him on the floor…

"I mean," he tried again, "you could still be the Illusive Man's puppet for all we know. And _you_ might not even realize it…" It wasn't that everything he said was wrong…it just came out that way.

"You think he _indoctrinated_ me?! Are you _insane_?"

Alenko struggled to sound calm, despite the resurgence of his medication-suppressed migraine. The pain made it harder to think straight. "Look, questions of sanity—or lack thereof—aside…" he had to figure out what it was he needed to hear from her—her answer didn't matter as much as the act of answering. But the right question eluded him.

"What I need to know is…are you still in there? Is the woman I loved still in there?"

Behind her helmet, Shepard's skin went white, the little of her cheeks he could see turned red, and her blue-green eyes seemed to glow as they grew bloodshot, then red-rimmed. "If you want the Lazarus records, I'll contact my PCM at first opportunity and _send_ them to you," Shepard snarled, voice quavering. "I hope you have a strong stomach. I'll look you in the eye and tell you once, _Major_ —"

He should have seen her while they were both in Vancouver, cleared the air when there was no Cerberus or Reaper threat, when they could talk rationally…or shout at each other or whatever. Because fear, the horror of watching the long-awaited nightmare come true, and adrenaline were taking something that could have been managed rationally and turning them into violent, ugly messes.

"Two years for you were a couple minutes for me. They wanted one hundred percent Jalissa A. Shepard and they _got_ it. Or does everything with a Cerberus tag turn over multi-billion credit Cerberus investments these days?"

"Alenko, don't say it!" Liara saved them, the sharp command stopping whatever he might have said.

He didn't really know Shepard, he realized. He didn't know her at all…and maybe never had.


	47. Hurt

"How can you compare _me_ with _that_?!" Shepard demanded, hurt and more than a little offended. She'd managed to suppress her concerns over her 'real-ness', but Alenko's question ripped that package of trouble wide open. Her eyes slid to the disfigured face; it was with difficulty that she didn't reach up to touch her cheek, where the scars had once glowed livid orange.

"Look, I don't know what you are, or who. Not since Cerberus rebuilt you," Alenko argued grimly.

Shepard gritted her teeth, the words twisting like knives. His attempt at a reasonable tone did not help at all…she found herself fighting the urge to put him on the floor like a wayward recruit, Yamada-esque in the 'it's for your own good' brutality.

"I mean, you could still be the Illusive Man's puppet for all we know. And you might not even realize it…"

"You think he _indoctrinated_ me?! Are you _insane_?" the words jumped out before she could even think about stopping them.

Alenko fought to return his voice to calmness. "Look, questions of sanity—or lack thereof—aside…what I need to know is…are you still in there? Is the woman I loved still in there?"

Shepard's mouth went white, her cheeks went white, then her complexion went splotchy red. The effect of the reddening with her peculiar eyes was extremely unattractive. She grimaced, inordinately irritated by his wishy-washy sentimentalism.

He either _trusted_ her or he _didn't_.

He either perceived her as ' _real'_ or he _didn't_.

He couldn't _have_ the middle ground unless he cut ties. He _couldn't_ have it both ways.

"If you want the Lazarus records," she said with an acid calm brought on by pain, anger, and something akin to despair, "I'll contact my PCM at first opportunity and _send_ them to you." Her voice hardened, her face hardened, "I hope you have a strong stomach."

She could have planted the butt end of her rifle in his breastplate—no damage, that way, but a vent for her roiling emotions—but she mustered her restraint. "I'll look you in the eye and tell you once, _Major_." She fixed her gaze on him with all the intensity that kept the air around her so charged with energy, with the force of personality that had helped her keep a team steady in a hundred bad situations. "Two years for you were a couple minutes for me. They wanted one hundred percent Jalissa A. Shepard and they got it—or does everything with a Cerberus tag turn over multi- _billion_ credit Cerberus investments these days?"

-J-

"Alenko, don't say it," Liara jumped in, knowing the obvious answer to this argument: if he brought up Aratoht, he might very well push Shepard past her breaking point. She did not want to see what would happen; she would bet money that Alenko completely alienating Shepard forever would be the least troubling result.

Alenko seemed to catch her meaning, tightened his jaw to keep the argument behind his teeth.

Shepard did not back down, but continued with the kind of savage assertion of one who feels themselves supported by the very foundations of the earth. "I am _not_ working for Cerberus. I worked with them because I had no other damn options. _End report,_ s—."

"Shepard." The insult wasn't as bad as Alenko's near-blunder into bringing up the three hundred thousand deaths that still, obviously, weighed on Shepard's mind. Still, the tacked on 'sir,' a word she was compelled by propriety to use, would have had the same effect as a low blow, counterproductive to everything but relieving some of the building turmoil.

Both humans were screaming with it, a high-pitched wail of horror, shock, loss. There were no emotional emergency brakes, which made the situation worse. Made it 'terrifying' and other variations on the word based on their drift.

For Alenko it was the obliteration of everything he knew—perhaps even everyone.

For Shepard, it was seeing millions of people facing their own personal Mindoir, something she had tried so hard to spare them.

A nasty silence followed, during which Shepard and Alenko seemed to recalculate one another—not with intent to catalogue weaknesses, but to reassess strengths, to recalibrate memories that were, by now, out of date regarding the reality of the soldier before them.

Maybe it was best for them to be in a situation like this, where there were plenty of enemies for them to shoot at, so they wouldn't tear each other apart while clearing the air—or trying to. It was all Liara could do to hope that the hemorrhage in the relationship the two shared was only exacerbated by current events, that it looked worse than it actually was.

Alenko opened his mouth to override Liara's warning, but shut it when she pinned him with a cold look. This was _not_ the time. As if her silence forced him to reassess the situation, he glanced back at Shepard.

As soon as he did so, looked Shepard in the eye, evidence of the impending remark vanished. Most people would recognize only the anger and frustration on Shepard's face. Both were certainly there; both were certainly directed at him.

She wondered if the look of realization meant he finally understood what she already knew: that behind a very thin veneer of anger and frustration lay silent scream 'you're hurting me!' He had her, so to speak, backed up against a wall, unable to recoil any further out of harm's way.

And she would never cry 'uncle.'

"I…want to trust you, Shepard," his tone was much gentler, still defensive, but gentler.

Shepard sighed, ran her hand over her helmet, as if she wanted to run her fingers through her hair. "Then _do_ it. Or _don't_. Just…pick a side." The words came out with the manufactured neutrality for which Shepard was known, but Liara caught the undercurrent.

It wasn't a choice being offered. It wasn't an order.

It was as close to 'stop hurting me' as she could manage.


	48. Gnash Teeth

"Alenko, check perimeter," Shepard directed as she strode up to the Prothean Archive. She'd heard of it, studied it in school—days so distant they had begun to haze over—but she'd never seen it, never expected to see it. Her sinuses buzzed and she knew that, if she touched anything behind the shields, her headache would get a whole lot worse. She wasn't sure if it was a _beacon_ in there…but she knew, by instinct, that she would prefer to follow her mother's advice: _put your hands in your pockets or behind your back_.

"Right. Don't-don't touch anything, Shepard," Alenko offered.

Shepard turned, her expression softening. "I'll definitely work on the not-touching thing." With this sentiment lingering in the air, she prowled forward to the consoles that allowed outsiders to interface.

Interface without getting their grey matter rearranged, Shepard thought grimly.

A soft hiss caught her attention, prompted her to turn, her rifle coming to her shoulder.

A small VI shell, little bigger than a softball, floated over to her, its projection coalescing into…

" _You_ ," she had to resist the urge to pull the trigger as the Illusive Man's countenance formed.

" _Hello, Shepard_."

Liara, who had turned when Shepard snarled, also drew her weapon, her lips pulling back from her teeth. "Illusive Man."

" _Dr. T'Soni_."

Shepard tried not to shake, to force herself to _think_ , to _act_ , and not simply _react_. Adrenaline and anger both made her want to lash out, irrationally, like an abused varren snapping at its rescuers.

" _Fascinating race, the Protheans. They left all this for us to discover_ ," the Illusive Man declared idly, waving his cigarette around to indicate the Archives, " _and we squandered it._ "

For once, Shepard did not contradict him, even knowing he would take it as a small victory. Knowing that there had been _something_ here that hinted, concretely, at the existence of the Reapers—even if all people could admit was that there was something the Protheans wanted _destroyed_ —that it had been here all the time…it was a bitter pill for her to swallow.

Her mind clicked, suddenly glad she'd set Alenko to check the perimeter. The Illusive Man liked to gloat and run his mouth, but he usually had a reason for doing so.

Dr. Coré was still unaccounted for, as well as any Cerberus trooper who seemed smart enough to navigate the Archives with intent to withdraw information. Somehow…she didn't think that delicate operations were their strong suit.

" _The Alliance has known about the Archives for more than thirty years_ ," the Illusive Man's voice grated on Shepard's ears, " _and what have they done with it?"_

"We've got Reapers on Earth and all you can do is _gloat_? Classy, fella. _Really_ classy," Shepard retorted.

" _Oh. Have I touched a nerve_?"

It took a supreme act of will for Shepard to force down the anger. The Illusive Man was simply an irritation, an inconvenience…but by that token, he was a target of _convenience_ : she could rage at him because she couldn't direct her anger where it belonged.

And, if he was here to gloat, maybe getting him talking would help. He might lie, but he might prefer to dangle the truth just out of her reach. The problem was that, despite his assertion at one time, he knew her about as well as she knew him: vaguely.

"What do you want?" Shepard asked, forcing her voice calm, though not free of harsh edges. What she wouldn't give to corner him wherever he was lurking…

" _What I've_ always _wanted,"_ he answered, his tone one of reprimand. " _The data in these artifacts holds the key to solving the Reaper threat._ "

Shepard frowned as the Illusive Man's hologram began to pace. "Yeah, we saw your solution on the way in. Building your own damn husks."

The Illusive Man's hologram turned sharply.

"Did I hit a nerve?" Shepard asked lightly.

For a moment she and the Illusive Man traded veiled homicidal looks, his with grim distaste, hers with an insincere smile.

" _We've_ improved _them_ ," he answered, taking a draw on his cigarette. " _That's hardly the same thing as 'turning them into husks._ '"

"Improved?" Shepard repeated, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

" _That's what separates us—has always separated us—Shepard. Where you see a means to destroy, I see a means of control, a way to harness the Reapers' power."_

Shepard's exhale was one of disbelief. "Earth is _burning_ and you're hatching a scheme to—"

" _Spare me the foaming-at-the-mouth gibberish, Shepard. Your involvement in this ends now. You can't defeat the Reapers, even with the Prothean data._ "

"You couldn't control _me_ ,you can't control _them_. If you _really_ cared about humanity, you wouldn't be opening up a second front." She knew he'd understand what she meant: a war waged on two fronts rarely went well for the country trying to do it.

" _I don't expect you to understand and I'm certainly not looking for your approval. It's one of the few things we have in common._ "

Shepard grimaced, but didn't disagree. Neither of them expected the other to understand, neither cared for the other's approval. But for him to stand there, spouting his party line…at least he'd spared her the speech about 'sacrifices being made.' She didn't need another lump of coal fueling a bad day.

" _You were tool. An agent with a singular use. But you've exceeded your original parameters. Like the artifacts in this Archive—"_

"Shepard! The data! It's erasing itself!" Liara cried.

Shepard turned to look at the asari, then whipped around to glare at the Illusive Man's hologram.

He smiled at her, cigarette to his lips, one hand in his pocket, the epitome of smug. " _Don't interfere with my plans, Shepard. I won't warn you again._ "

She forced a smile, a smile full of hatred, "You foul my war effort and I will burn your house down. You've seen me do it."

"Shepard!" The cry belonged to Alenko and sent thoughts of the Illusive Man sliding to the periphery.


	49. Galvanize

Alenko prowled through the dim Archives, all glassy darkness and glowing green-lit Prothean tech. He'd seen a stone like it, when he was much younger, held under a black light to reveal its unique appearance. He moved as quietly as he could, his biotics flaring slightly with nerves. The dimness of the Archive was a mercy to his eyes, which had begun to develop spots of non-focus, little swirling patterns of distortion that played across his vision.

Shepard and Liara spoke quietly, their voices small and indistinct in the large room. He heard a third voice—it was male and slightly distorted—join them. His first instinct was to go back, to see who'd joined the group, but orders held firm: secure the perimeter.

Shepard's voice was angry, but she wasn't shooting at anyone. She sounded, he realized, like a rabid varren. He shivered, not out of fear but out of concern. If she was snarling like that, within moments of opening conversation, she must really hate the person to whom she spoke, or she'd lost her ability to compartmentalize things in favor of neutrality altogether.

Maybe it was both. Hard to keep things neutral when…

He shook himself mentally, urging himself not to go there. Not until he could sit down and think about it, try to worry some sense, some semblance of reason into a currently upside-down galaxy.

Still nothing…and no sign of the elusive Dr. Coré. Surely they should have run into her by now, if she was working for Cerberus…?

He glanced in the direction of Shepard's voice and caught brief glimpse of Shepard's back and a partly obscured hologram. So that's why she wasn't shooting. Curiosity tried to war with necessity and lost. But he thought he could guess who the hologram was: the Illusive Man.

Shepard confirmed it when her voice spiked, temporarily rendered coherent, "Earth is _burning_ and you're hatching a scheme to—"

Whatever the Illusive Man said to her, she gave a hiss, the sibilance of it carrying through the large room.

Keep checking the alcoves. It was all he could do, right now, though he'd have liked to get a good look at the Illusive Man. The man who'd rebuilt the _Normandy_. The man whose organization had funded a living, breathing Jalissa Shepard's Collector hunt, spent even more for the ship…

His stomach squelched uneasily: all that expenditure and the man could still afford to do things like _that_ to his own men, turn them into…creatures…and not 'people' at all.

Why choose 'Cerberus' as the organization's name? 'Hydra' would have suited them much better: the three-headed dog that guarded the underworld versus the monster of many heads—heads which would keep growing _back_. _That_ sounded _just_ like the Illusive Man's organization.

Alenko continued moving, and then stopped abruptly.

Almost hidden in one of the alcoves with her back to him was Dr. Coré, her dark head bent over an interface at which she rapidly worked. Her fingers flew over the display.

Beside her on the console lay her pistol.

"Step away from the console," Alenko declared, raising his rifle to his shoulder, as Liara's voice rose sharply.

The doctor turned, glanced at him over her shoulder. Slowly, she raised her hands, turned, her dark eyes fixed upon him.

There was no tensing of muscles, no change in her expression. One moment she was completely at rest, moving her hands to put them behind her head. The next moment she kicked out at him, landing a blow in his stomach. The force caused him to lurch, and catch her knotted-together hands to the back of the head.

She knocked him down, but didn't knock him out.

She snatched her pistol and took off at a run, a run that seemed too fast. "Shepard!" he shouted, his voice bouncing off the Archive's walls.

"She's got the data!" Liara cried.

He couldn't see Shepard, but heard a flurry of action, Shepard's voice spiking, "Get what you can!"

He picked himself up, ran around to see Shepard disappearing in a full sprint. "What can I do?" he demanded, once he reached Liara.

"We need to catch up with Shepard!" Liara called, tucking an OSD into her coat and activating her kinetic barriers. "Move!" She took off at a run as well, left him lumbering along after her.

It was easy to guess where Dr. Core would go: somewhere she could catch a shuttle. It seemed like forever ago that Shepard had dispatched Lt. Vega to keep an eye on their own transport.

Nevertheless, Shepard left them breadcrumbs: ruined tech mines surrounded by fresh scorch marks.

They didn't seem to be catching up, despite the fact that they now ran at full tilt. Liara was slowing, and his armor began to feel too heavy. Was it that he and Liara were just out of shape, or were Shepard and the doctor _ridiculously_ fit?

Nonsensically, he remembered how much Shepard _hated_ treadmills.

"There! There they are!" Liara called, pointing up.

He looked up in time to see armored heels vanish up a ladder.

Liara didn't climb; she _pushed_ against the ground and let her biotics carry her, performing the action with an easy comfort that suggested she used it regularly.

He didn't feel that confident, so he struggled to pull himself up the ladder.

It gave way to a long, flat run-up to a shuttlepad.

Liara was about halfway to Shepard, Shepard had ground to a halt, too slow to stop the doctor from gaining the shuttle that had come for her. "Normandy!" he barked into his radio.

Static.

"Vega! We've got a Cerberus shuttle! Do you hear me? We need to drop it!" He wasn't sure the message got through, but he heard Shepard's shouts—probably for the Normandy or Vega, or anyone who might be able to shoot the shuttle down.

Just as the knot of failure twisted in his stomach, James Vega dropped the shuttle. Specifically, he rammed it right into the ground.


	50. Stew

James Vega frowned out the 'driver's side window' of the Kodiak, all viewscreens toggled 'on' so he could watch the mess of a Martian dust storm whipping around. He didn't like being displaced under normal circumstances, but he could not quite suppress the feeling—and the resentment that came with it—of being relegated to the kiddie pool.

So he couldn't put on weird lightshows: wasn't one biotic on a team more than enough?

He winced at the thought; some would argue his own history answered the question with 'apparently not.'

Still, he hadn't liked leaving the strike team just to come back here and watch the shuttle—though he could see why Shepard wanted _someone_ watching it. It wouldn't be a great way to end a mission, finding out too late that someone had hijacked their ride. Communications with the Normandy were patchy, and he didn't doubt his ability to reach Shepard's team would get dicey as well.

He knew he shouldn't feel so sullen, but he couldn't help it. First they'd left Earth—where the fight was thickest—then he'd been removed from combat _again_ to make room for Shepard's pretty asari friend.

Liara—whom he'd seen once before— _was_ pretty, as most asari were, but there was something about her that made him nervous. Something cold, something in the way she carried herself, told him clearly that this was _not_ a woman to cross.

Ever.

Suddenly, he leapt into action, revving the engines to life and pulling away from the landing pad, swooping high into the air, higher than the storm, until he could see it clearly from above, but not be inhibited by it. All instruments read negative for any kind of air traffic, so circling the facility as he waited for Shepard's call for extraction did not seem like a bad idea.

He liked being enveloped in that storm even less.

He found that running lazy circles around the now almost invisible facility was good for his nerves. It let him feel like he was actually _doing_ something, instead of uselessly kicking his heels.

Maybe Shepard had decided he was 'an unstable element.' She certainly hadn't liked his attempt to insist on being dropped off back on Earth.

He discarded this, feeling guilty: that wasn't a fair assessment. He could see the futility of going back, just him and his rifle. He'd fight very hard and die very uselessly, he was sure. The fight might be on Earth, but the road to _victory_ wasn't—and he was, apparently, on the road whether he liked it or not.

Was _that_ why he was here? Give him time to think?

No, he concluded, he was here for Shepard's avowed reason: to make sure Cerberus didn't try anything cute with their means of getting off this dustball.

The silence was getting to him. He cued the radio, frowning at it. "Hey, anyone receiving?"

Static.

A cold sense of nervousness gripped him, "Hey, _Normandy_? You still up there?"

More static.

It had to be the storm: he wasn't totally clear of it, now, having to balance a 'comfortable' altitude with the ability to swoop in quickly should extraction require speed. He glanced out the 'window' again. This high, there was some light, enough to distinguish color and swirls as air and dust moved, but not much else. There was instrumentation for that.

After a moment, he cued his own radio. "Commander? You read me?"

"… _barely. —s causing interference_."

"Yeah, tell me about it. I've lost contact with the _Normandy_." He couldn't be sure, but in the static that followed he thought he heard her swear. "I need to move—what's your position? I'll follow from the air." That was an even better idea: it would put him a bit closer to the action and give him something to concentrate on.

"— _Vega. Repeat!_ "

"What is your position?" he repeated slowly. Suddenly, static burst over the uplink, which then fell silent. "Damn," he tried to reestablish the connection, but failed.

Fear gripped him again, making him wonder of the Reapers might not be interfering with communications. Who knew what you could hide in a storm like this, and surely any Prothean hoard would be something they'd want gone.

He was jumping at shadows.

This in mind, he turned off the screens simulating windows and relied, instead, on the various interfaces and displays that allowed a pilot to handle the vessel without actually seeing his surroundings.

They should have brought Cortez. Then Cortez could babysit the shuttle and he could do what he did best.

Time continued to move strangely as he circled, feeling a bit like a vulture, and the storm began to abate—though he suspected that the dust would continue blowing in a thick blanket for some time, hanging like smoke in the air.

He waited.

Suddenly, his instruments began to blink, indicating that he was no longer alone in the air. A shuttle had swooped in from nowhere, made its way to the northeastern end of the Archive. He followed, wondering if they'd noticed him or if they even cared.

It certainly wasn't a Reaper ship.

A second later the radio link coughed and Shepard's voice, hoarse, came across it. Clearly, she didn't know whether receptivity had been reestablished or not. "— _ga! You read_ —" The connection was still so bad.

"Yeah, I've got you…"

"— _ss has the data_! _—the_ Normandy _, get them — here now!"_

He watched the unidentified shuttle on his instruments, tracked closer to it as he tried to establish an uplink with the Normandy. "Normandy, Normandy. This is the away team—you getting this?"

Nothing.

Shepard's next shout was of frustration and—given her tone since he didn't have all the words—fear.

The shuttle was right below him.

He did the only thing anyone could do: he angled down sharply and sent the Kodiak slamming into the smaller vessel, sending both of them to the ground like a pair of stones.


	51. Unforseen

Sweat dripped in rivers down Shepard's body, making her aware of how long it had been since she'd properly armored up. The suit felt alien on her, uncomfortable. Her visor fogged around the edges.

She didn't laugh at a memory—it was so inane for it to pop up now—of Joker: _it's just mad 'cause all its footage of me looks like a dream sequence._

The high winds of Mars—and the passing dust storm—made visibility and balance difficult. She knew, deep down, that she would never have been able to keep up with Dr. Coré if she hadn't put in so much time on the treadmill while in lockup.

Her head ached, a combination of exertion and anger—the last time she'd been so angry so consistently had been just after Mindoir. This anger was different, but it still had roots in helplessness. That was the worst kind of anger: the kind that spawned from the inability to act.

It was even worse when the inability was due to no personal fault, when it wasn't something that could be—or could have been—corrected.

The _crash_ and _crunch_ of Vega dropping their shuttle like a stone to drive Dr. Coré's own into the landing pad were sweet sounds, even if she and her team had to scatter to avoid the line of travel.

"Everyone okay?" Shepard called, scrambling to her feet. She didn't hurt anywhere new, so she decided she was fine. She came around the shuttle, out of which Vega was descending, to find Alenko pulling Liara gently to her feet.

"I'm not hurt," Liara grunted. She favored one side, and limped a bit, but the damage seemed to be superficial, not enough to warrant concern.

Shepard turned her attention to Dr. Coré's shuttle. Clearly she'd got it pressurized before Vega crashed it: it burned as the oxygen within ignited while the cabin depressurized.

"Fine," Alenko responded. He sounded winded, but nothing worse.

"We need the data." Liara began limping forward.

"Heya Commander," Vega declared, taking Shepard's attention away from her crewmen. "Normandy says they're swinging around for a pickup. Be here soon." He looked around, heaved an exhale that told Shepard, quite plainly, that he hadn't set out to crash the shuttles…it had been what was needed at the time. An expedient answer.

An answer without consideration. It showed in the slightly bouncy way he moved, as if his body was trying to check and make sure it was all right after such foolishness.

She didn't argue the results. But it was impulsive and the evidence was 'impulse sent, impulse acted upon' which was no good for an N7. Anderson saw the potential in Vega. She saw potential, too. Regardless of outcome, it was something she'd have to address later.

Later being the operative word. For now, he'd done what was necessary.

"You okay?" she demanded.

"Me? Aw, I'm fine. No problem," Vega answered.

"The shuttle okay?" she asked.

"Eee-yeah…Esteban might complain a bit about the scuffs, but it's in one piece." There was a note of justification in his tone, the way he might explain a fender bender to a stern parent. Under any other circumstances she might have chuckled.

"It is—"

"Holy shit!" the shout was Alenko's and bought everyone's attention to him. He staggered back as the door of the Cerberus shuttle was wrenched loose and forcibly ejected from its slot.

Dr. Coré, blackened and burned, stepped free of the shuttle, her movements evidencing no injury of any kind.

No, _not_ Dr. Coré…she was a _machine_.

Shepard began to move, her mind screaming that she needed to get a firing solution now, _right now_ because Alenko didn't have her resistance to Cerberus' surprises. She rarely put anything past the Illusive Man. She'd served with EDI. A mech like this? Surprising, but not staggering.

The mech shot out a hand, grabbed Alenko around the throat and hoisted him, armor and all, to dangle freely. Shepard moved, but Dr. Coré kept turning, ensuring that no one of the team could get a firing solution.

There was a moment during which Alenko tried valiantly to break the mech's hold on him and the mech seemed to be on the radio. She reached up and shattered Alenko's helmet visor. Shepard's shout mingled with Liara's as the mech turned and slammed Alenko forcibly into the shuttle.

Shepard leveled her rifle and opened fire. The first bullet caught the mech in the hip—Shepard knew she'd jerked the trigger. It did cause the mech to drop Alenko, however. As soon as he hit the ground Liara, with a shout of effort, yanked the soldier to her, out of the mech's reach.

Shepard's second bullet hit the mech in the shoulder as the mech turned and began a running charge.

Shepard flipped the weapon from three round burst to fully automatic. She hated doing it, hated the sense of 'panicky reaction' full auto gave her, but she couldn't afford to let that mech in close.

The mech jerked, staggered, then finally crumpled into a heap. Shepard sprang forward, unloaded a few more rounds, then waved her omnitool. No signs of activity, no processers, no power cores. The thing was 'dead.'

Shepard saw the shadow of the Normandy, though she didn't look up at it.

This was just like Eden Prime: mission gone sideways, someone critically injured and unconscious. Only this time she was the one stuck watching it, rather than the one waiting to wake up.

"Report!" Shepard barked, bounding over to where Liara knelt beside Alenko, his shattered visor plastered with omnigel.

"Vega! Grab that thing! I want it!" her voice had harsh corners she knew she didn't need, but they exposed themselves anyway, rasping at her throat.

"We need to get him aboard!" Liara shouted back, some of Shepard's own fear looking back at her from behind the asari's breather. "I'll move him with my biotics! Try to make sure his head doesn't shift too much!"


	52. Improvise

"EDI! We've got head trauma—run a scan and see if you can't find anything about treating them! I'll need your assistance in the medbay. Joker, take us out of system, head straight for the Citadel," Shepard's voice whipped out, imperatively. She sounded as though she had the situation in hand…even though it wasn't.

"He going to be okay?" Vega asked, clearly feeling awkward.

"I don't know, yet, Vega. Liara get him situated and put an O2 mask on him," Shepard continued, her mind racing so fast that any emotional attachment to Alenko was blown past the speeding train of necessity. All N-operatives were taught something about treating battlefield injuries, but Shepard had long known that her specialty was taking people apart, not putting them together. Thankfully, a lot of the learning had to do with memorizing and following directions.

She still shuddered at the memory of her first tracheotomy—and that had been on a practice dummy.

Treating head injuries was tricky, but she was hoping that the ability to follow given direction coupled with anything Liara knew plus anything EDI could find out before they made the FTL jump would give Alenko a fighting chance.

After all, it took them fifteen hours to get her from lying flat on her back on Eden Prime to within spitting distance of the Citadel. The irony was not entirely lost on her.

"Vega, you're acting XO while I'm in the medbay," Shepard announced, "just keep the crew calm and collected." She fought back dryness in her throat. All she could really do was dole out aspirin and sugar cubes. N-operatives all received medical training, but most only up to a certain level of competency. Outsiders widely forgot that N-operatives were trained to deal with (or adapt to) almost anything that came up. 'Real' medics were generally preferred, except when the operatives were part of a consolidated group. Those groups usually had one or two operatives who truly specialized.

Shepard found herself wishing she had someone like that here, now. But there wasn't. There was her, Liara, and EDI.

Shepard did not head directly to the medical bay, but to the locker where Alenko's armor had been—he wore a heavier model now, and that required a few extra tools, all of which were lined up neatly in a small, foam-lined toolbox. Liara could start him breathing again if he stopped—she had to believe that—she could restart his heart if it stopped…

EDI would probably know how to handle more.

Shepard shook as she grabbed the tools.

Even if she didn't have to crack his shell—as the process of de-armoring a soldier for medical purpose was called—the doctors wherever they took him would want to. It was her job as his CO to make sure he could get smoothly from temporary care to proper care with as little lost time as possible.

"All right, what's his status?" Shepard demanded calmly as she stepped it to the medbay.

"Still breathing, but…not good," Liara began. "I'm not qualified to treat head injuries, Shepard. If we're not careful, we could make it worse."

"We'll be careful," Shepard assured her, glad to find that her voice was steady, bolstering even. It did not betray her own inner anxieties.

" _Shepard, I have the requisite data, and Dr. T'Soni has completed most of the preliminary tasks. Major Alenko's vitals are still erratic—you will need to stabilize him_."

"Can he handle the trip?" Shepard asked, shedding her hand plates and pulling sterile gloves on, partly for the sense of 'doing things right.'

" _If we stabilize his condition, it is likely._ "

Shepard would have infinitely preferred bullet wounds or excessive blood loss; she could deal with that sort of thing.

Treating head injuries, though…that was dicey on the best days. There was so much 'one could never be sure' to it.

"Good. Thank you."

" _You will want to apply a stabilization collar, after removing his amp_ ," EDI announced.

Basic, common sense, but Shepard was glad to hear it. She found the stabilization collar. "Hold his head," she dictated to Liara.

The asari gently lifted Alenko's head, careful not to impede his ability to breathe. Shepard, working blind, worried Alenko's amp from its jack, dropped it to the floor, then nudged it with her boot so she wouldn't trip on it.

"EDI, scan for broken bones." Shepard raised her omnitool, tapping into Alenko's hardsuit's computer.

" _I am detecting numerous fractures. The cranial fracture itself should not cause difficulties. The rest of the fractures are held secure by Major Alenko's hardsuit_."

Shepard's stomach went cold. Cranial injuries were the worst, particularly for a biotic.

"Run a scan of his head and see what you have in your databanks about L2s, the people and the implants," Shepard ordered flatly. "Cross your fingers." She had to try twice, after activating the medic's override on Alenko's armor, before she successfully ran the IV—this was due more to nerves than lack of skill.

" _Shepard, Major Alenko is bleeding internally_ ," EDI announced.

"Dammit, Alenko. Are you trying to duck out of this war? Because if you are, so help me…" her hissed imprecation trailed off. It was hard to badger someone who looked _that_ helplessly dependent on others.

"I didn't know you had medical training," Liara noted.

"All N7s have medical training—I just wasn't very good at it." She could do the basic frontline stuff, but this was a bit more than she'd ever felt confident with.

"Could have fooled me," Liara returned.

"Well, I'm coming up on a wall. EDI, where's the bleeding?"

" _I am detecting blood pooling in his cranial cavity. I am routing a compilation of—"_

"Thank you," Shepard interrupted as Liara brought up the screen showing EDI's compilation of information regarding treatment—including a general step-by-step procedure the two women could follow.

" _He requires professional medical care as soon as possible, but I believe we can stabilize him until that point."_

"Here's hoping," Shepard murmured.


	53. Possibilities

"EDI! We've got head trauma—run a scan and see if you can't find anything about treating them! I'll need your assistance in the medbay. Joker, take us out of system, head straight for the Citadel."

EDI focused her second and fourth medbay cameras, one on Liara and Shepard as they gently deposited Maj. Alenko on one of the medical tables, one on Lt. Vega with the Cerberus machine slung over his shoulder.

"Is he going to be okay?" Vega demanded.

"I don't know, yet, Vega. Liara get him situated and put an O2 mask on him just to be safe," Shepard barked.

(Run diagnostic for Medbay functionality. Diagnostic return: Medbay is fully functioning and fully stocked.)

"Vega, you're acting XO while I'm in the medbay," Shepard continued briskly, "just keep the crew calm and collected."

Vega nodded sharply, then strode out, clearly glad to be doing _something_ and to be out of the medbay.

"All right, what's his status?" Shepard demanded calmly of Liara.

"Still breathing, but…not good," Liara began. She bit her lip before continuing. "I'm not qualified to treat head injuries, Shepard. If we're not careful, we could make it worse."

(Cross reference internal databanks: trauma (head), oxygen deprivation. Reference internal personnel files: Alenko, Kaidan M.. Search: blood type. Type returned: O-.)

It might ease Shepard's mind to know that syntheblood was available: syntheblood on hand and IVs in place seemed to be universal comforters for those out of their league when it came to medical treatment.

(Tapping medbay functions. Preventive measure: calibrating syntheblood synthesis for O-. Calibrations complete.)

(Incoming message from the bridge. Switch to Bridge Cameras -01 and -02. Move focus: Cockpit.) " _How is he_?"

Unasked, EDI triggered the command that turned the medbay's windows opaque as she responded to Joker's question. "I am unsure, Jeff. Commander Shepard and Dr. T'Soni are still performing triage."

(Switch to Medbay Cameras -02, -04, and -05. Move focus: Medbay.)

"We'll be careful." Shepard pulled on a pair of gloves, took a deep breath in an attempt to slow her heartbeat and steady her hands. Her vitals were erratic, her hardsuit recording the strain of unaccustomed activity coupled with acute distress.

Distress for multiple reasons.

"Shepard, I have the requisite data, and Dr. T'Soni has completed most of the preliminary tasks. Major Alenko's vitals are still erratic—you will need to stabilize him."

"Can he handle the whole trip?" Shepard demanded.

EDI extrapolated, but did not feel the need to share the actual raw data. Or the first approximation of the Major's chances. It was only Shepard's penchant for teammates with extraordinary luck and an unquenchable will to survive that kept the numbers in an array somewhere instead of being voiced.

Shepard did not need the demoralizing answer.

"It we stabilize his condition, it is likely."

"Good. Thank you."

"You will want to apply a stabilization collar, after removing his amp," EDI directed.

Shepard rifled through several cabinets before finding the stabilizing collar. "Hold his head," she dictated to Liara, who did so. Shepard carefully jimmied Alenko's amp loose, letting it fall to the ground where she nudged it out of the way with her foot.

She probably should not treat it so cavalierly, but time was not something of which she had a surplus. This done, Shepard wrapped the stabilizing collar securely in place before settling Alenko's head back on the table. "EDI, scan for broken bones." Shepard raised her omnitool, tapping into Alenko's hardsuit's computer and routing the internal monitoring suite to one of the medbay consoles.

(Tapping medbay functions. Scanning for bone integrity.) " _I am detecting numerous fractures. The cranial fracture itself should not cause difficulties. The rest of the fractures are held secure by Major Alenko's hardsuit_."

(Switch to AI Core Camera.)

The Cerberus machine lay in a heap where Vega dropped it unceremoniously on the floor, burnt and battered.

(Scanning. Scanning.)

No power sources, no 'presents' of an explosive nature from Cerberus. Undoubtedly there were self-destruct runtimes, but she might be able to bypass those…

(Incoming message from the medbay.)

"Run a scan of his head and see what you have in your databanks about L2s the people and the implants," Shepard dictated. "Cross your fingers," she muttered, turning Alenko's wrist and cuing the medic's override that would shut down the mass effect fields that made the underarmor mesh vacuum-proof so she could run an IV through Alenko's mesh and into his arm. Heavy armor mesh was more unyielding than the medium-weight stuff, even without the mass effect fields that maintained suit integrity in a vacuum.

(Scanning for internal trauma/bleeding.)

Shepard clearly did not feel comfortable handling a needle. She missed her mark the first time with a curse. Wincing, she tried again, this time with success.

(Scan returned: internal bleeding detected.)

"Shepard, Major Alenko is bleeding internally."

"Dammit, Alenko," Shepard groused, as though Alenko was purposely making things difficult.

(Playback: enhance audio; increase volume….increase volume…increase volume…replay audio log fragment.)

((Shepard: …are you trying to duck out on this war? Because if you are, so help me…))

"I didn't know you had medical training," Liara noted as she watched Shepard's preparations.

"All N7s have medical training—I just wasn't very good at it."

"Could have fooled me."

"Well, I'm coming up on a wall. EDI, where's the bleeding?"

"I am detecting blood pooling in his cranial cavity. I am routing a compilation of—"

"Thank you," Shepard interrupted as Liara brought up the screen showing EDI's compilation of information regarding treatment—including a general step-by-step procedure Shepard and Liara could follow.

"He requires professional medical care as soon as possible, but I believe we can stabilize him until that point." EDI did not reroute back to her AI core cameras, though she would have liked to. She did, however, begin running passive diagnostics on the Cerberus machine. As Shepard had begun the preliminary work on Alenko an idea had occurred to EDI, an idea that represented wonderful, useful possibilities.

But those possibilities could wait.


	54. Needs of the Many

Shepard took a deep breath as she washed her hands, letting the hot water sear against her icy fingers. True, she had a man down, but she couldn't lock herself in the medbay and wait for him to wake up. She was the commanding officer. She had a ship full of scared R&D people, technicians, very few individuals who had ever seen the frontlines. Most of them drove desks when they weren't tinkering with tech.

And now they were in the middle of a war, requisitioned by her to stay in the middle of it. She had to talk to them, reassure them that things were under control—even though she used the phrase in the loosest way possible. They needed to know that the immediate future was stable—to focus, metaphorically, on the next twenty meters.

She took another deep breath, let it out slowly. "EDI."

"Yes, Shepard?" EDI asked. She'd moderated the volume of her answer, which gave the impression of gentle inquiry.

"Can you and Joker handle things for a while? I need to assemble the crew for a briefing." She swallowed, glanced over at Liara and Alenko. Liara's eyes were dark, the asari equivalent of bloodshot, but she wasn't crying.

"Of course. Shall I summon them to the mess deck?"

"Tell them to be there in twenty minutes." Twenty minutes would let her get the sweat showered off, let her get changed back into her BDUs. Twenty minutes would let her cry unseen, if she needed to, and pull herself together. She had duties, and an injured crewman—even one about whom she cared deeply, regardless of the increasingly appealing idea of wall-to-wall resolution—couldn't bring operations to a halt.

" _Attention: all crewmen will report to the mess deck in twenty minutes for a briefing. Repeat: all crewmen will report to the mess deck in twenty minutes for a briefing,_ " EDI announced over the all-call.

"What are you going to tell them?" Liara asked.

"What they need to know. I'm going to get mopped up. I suggest you do the same."

Liara looked at Alenko. "He shouldn't be alone, Shepard."

Shepard bit her lip. "Believe me, I don't want to leave him alone. And I don't intend to do so."

EDI could, Shepard knew, keep an eye on him…but she would much rather have a warm body in the room. It was nothing against the AI, but if Alenko should wake up—however doubtful he would—he deserved to know there was a face to accompany a voice waiting for him.

"Go on, you have a ship to run. I'll stay here until you send in a relief."

Shepard nodded. "Thanks." With that, she turned and made her way up to the Captain's quarters, grabbed her clothes and dropped them in the chair by her desk. She peeled out of her armor plates, the mesh underlay, the under armor and stepped into the shower. She turned it on, shivering at the cold spray which quickly grew warm. She washed with brisk efficiency, even if she wanted to linger under the hot downpour. Her mind tried, over and over, to replay those horrible moments, but she forced necessity to take the place of worry, of endless what-ifs.

It was just like a distorted reflection of Eden Prime.

She dried off, dragged her clothes on and took a deep, fortifying breath. Anger still burned in her guts like acid, but this time it had a purpose: to remind her not to give vent to it, not to let the crew see it.

For a moment, a brief moment on the landing in front of the elevator, she indulged in the fear that she'd lost her touch, that working with Cerberus and her incarceration had somehow damaged her ability to lead. She shelved the fear, forced it into a tiny dark pigeonhole in her mind and headed down to the mess deck.

The crew had already begun to trickle in, most of them looking nervous. She didn't blame them—they looked like she felt.

So, to countermand the feeling, she went and sat on the steps that led to the main battery. She wished Garrus was here. She could use the moral support.

EDI gave an announcement at the five-minute mark, but no one else trickled in.

"First of all, I want to commend all of you. It's been a rough day, but you kept it together and pulled through. I know that most of you aren't front-liners. Until today, you've probably been more comfortable driving a desk than serving on an active warship." She paused to look over them. Fear had begun to leech out of them, leaving weariness in its place. The praise and understanding of their situation, rather than talk about Reapers and tactics, had begun to ease their minds.

During her scan of the crowd, she caught sight of a familiar face, Engineer Adams, standing in the background. He caught her eye, then looked hastily away as if he hadn't.

A personal chat, then. Later.

"We're heading for the Citadel, where we'll make contact with Alliance High Command and get fresh orders. Until then, try to get some sleep. If you can't sleep, find a workstation to occupy until you can sleep. I keep an open-door policy with my crew. If you need me, come find me. Any questions?"

A hesitant hand went up. The woman stood up, looking very nervous. "Is Major Alenko…going to be alright?"

Shepard force d a chuckle. "Alenko will be just _fine_. A little knock to the head isn't going to do more than slow him down."

The crew looked reassured, and several glances drifted towards the opaque medbay windows.

"If there's nothing else, you're dismissed." Shepard stayed where she was while the crew filed out, some towards the dormitory, others towards work stations.

Only Vega remained, arms crossed, looking pensive.

Shepard got to her feet. "You're relieved, LT."

He nodded, heaved a deep breath, then headed for the elevator.


	55. Stiff Upper Lip

Liara listened as EDI relayed Shepard's pep talk to her. That was one thing about Shepard: she could hold people together during a crisis.

She looked at Alenko, remembering vaguely the last time she saw him asleep. It had been after the Battle of the Citadel: he had wandered out of his wards for a midnight walk, ran out of energy and ended up napping on a hallway couch.

He'd drooled in his sleep at the time, doubtless a side effect of whatever medication he'd been on.

His expression was harder now, with more angles and a certain uncompromising quality to it. Maybe it was because this was a forced unconsciousness, unnatural, not like sleep. He was still there. She couldn't feel his drift, exactly…but she knew it was there.

Apart from that, his vitals, while weak, were consistent. Wherever he was, he was hanging on with all the dogged determination that seemed, to her, to sum up the best quality humanity possessed. They were persistent when motivated, tenacious, inventive.

The door hissed open, admitting Shepard. There were no visible signs of the anger Liara had watched her wrestle with all day, no hint of fear about the Reapers, no signs of anything but concern over an injured friend.

Shepard's drift told a different story, first quivering hot and sinus-stinging, like a nose full of pepper, then shuddering like the convulsions after being physically ill with a color much to match such exhalations, then bracing as if against a threat. The rapid fluxing between the states of 'jangled nerves' made Liara's head hurt.

"No change?" Shepard asked needlessly.

"No. But he's hanging on."

Shepard walked over to Alenko, touched the back of her hand to his face as if she could somehow divine something useful in doing so.

Liara closed her eyes as Shepard's drift washed with pain, like that of an open, bleeding wound, a pain that seemed to drown out the other things flying around in her emotional haze. Shepard kept the tender concern off her face, but couldn't stop its gentle pink from seeping into her drift.

It made Liara feel as though she'd intruded on something deeply personal.

"Get mopped up, Liara. There're spare uniforms in the cargo bay. Anderson stocked this place against a hasty departure," Shepard declared. "I've made my rounds."

Liara got to her feet. "I'll come relieve you in a few hours."

"Thanks."

Liara forced a smile. "Can't have you saying 'I told you so' to the Council when you're too tired to enjoy it."

Shepard's smile was totally artificial and looked it. Clearly 'I told you so' didn't mean much to her. "We'll need to brief them on the device you found," Shepard announced. "Sooner or later."

"I'll be ready. And," she added, anticipating Shepard's next thought, "I'll have a copy of the briefing for Admiral Hackett."

"Sorry to cut in on your sleep." She certainly sounded sorry.

It was a sweet sort of hypocrisy: Shepard wanted to make sure her crew rested, took care of themselves, but she would run herself down to the bone. She had an excuse, of course, but Liara appreciated the irony. "Don't be. I doubt either of us will be getting much from here on in. Since we can speak frankly, there are a few things I need to discuss with you."

"Such as?" Shepard turned, giving Liara her full attention.

"I'll need to move into your XO's quarters. Specifically, I'll need to move my…various resources…into your XO's quarters."

"So my mobile headquarters is now your mobile headquarters?" Shepard asked wryly.

"Yes. The Shadow Broker is _very_ interested in the direction this war will take. It's best that one of his agents stays close to the heart of the action," Liara smiled. It was strange referring to herself in the third person, but she had no desire to make herself a notorious figure. They didn't need any more high-profile targets on the Normandy than was absolutely necessary.

Shepard was notorious enough for two.

Shepard's mouth twisted into an unwilling curve of genuine amusement. "Thank 'him' for 'his' concern. Where do we need to go to get your stuff?"

"Oh, I left it on the Citadel in the _last_ place _anyone_ would ever look for it." She was fairly sure this was the case. None of the alerts that would have sounded if the shuttle had been disturbed had sounded. It had to be safe. Safe and unobtrusive. "I'll need your cargo bay for a little while, but I think that, with enough time, I can handle all the moving myself. I won't need to borrow any of your crew."

"They might find the distraction welcome," Shepard sighed, running a hand though her short hair. "Speaking of equipment and trappings, where's your little drone?"

"Glyph? I sent him to the XO's quarters and told him to stay put." Liara dropped her voice. "He tried…ah…adjusting some of EDI's runtimes. He's helpful, sometimes a little too much so."

"Got it," Shepard nodded, glancing towards the panel where EDI's blue popup could appear.

Liara got to her feet, rubbing her arms. Ships were cold when one sat still too long. Or maybe it was all in her head.

"Anything else I need to know?" Shepard asked.

"No, not that I can think of. I'll keep you apprised, though."

Shepard nodded, and Liara took her leave as Shepard's drift melted into a grey puddle.

Part of her was glad to leave: Shepard's drift got loud when she was worked up. Part of her wanted to stay: Shepard shouldn't be alone any more than Alenko should.

The XO's quarters had its own shower, but Liara didn't make use of it just yet. Instead, she sat down on the foot of the bed and turned on her omnitool. She needed to organize her thoughts about the device, prepare for briefings, both verbal and written.

She stared at the empty document ready for her input, but found no words.

No words, just worries.


	56. Patch

Chief Engineer Adams knew what was coming. He knew it from the moment Shepard caught his gaze as she gave the crew the much-needed pep talk.

He didn't dread the conversation, but he didn't expect it to be comfortable. Not because Shepard was prone to rages, but because she was more likely to take things philosophically. He would have preferred a little grudging in the acceptance, a dash of resentment in permitting him to remain as her chief engineer.

Because she would; he was good at what he did, and had previous experience on the Normandy…though, granted, that was the SR-1 and not this gorgeous second generation.

He felt that the SR-2 was like the daughter in an adversity story: pretty mom, deadbeat dad, but entirely her own person, gifted and beautiful.

And smart, since EDI was there to turn her cogs.

The doors hissed, admitting Shepard. "How's the engine running?"

"Like the well-oiled machine it is," Adams answered promptly.

Shepard walked over, leaned on the console, gazing at the drive core. Her face had more angles than he remembered, but the eyes were still that vivid shade, neither blue nor green, and she retained that sense of readiness he associated with her.

"You're being twitchy, Adams. What's up?"

"I'd love to know how you know that," Adams declared, shaking his head.

"I'll let you in on a secret: you're a finger drummer. Tali once asked me how humans coped with having all those fingers. I told her we managed, asked her what brought that up. She said you did this thing with all your fingers. That you sounded like a regular drummers' corps." Shepard smirked wryly at the memory.

Adams opened his mouth, then shut it again, his expression curving into a rueful smile. "And here was me thinking you had perfect recall."

"Nope. I know a guy who does, though. I don't know how he lives with it. But maybe it's an 'all those fingers' thing."

Adams shook his head, certain that Shepard was referring to a real person and not cracking a joke.

"What's bothering you, Adams?"

"I guess it's because I owe you an apology. I _know_ I do, it's just—"

"Awkward bringing it up," Shepard finished benignly.

Adams nodded. Part of him was relieved that she was making this conversation easy. "When you were still working with Cerberus—when you got this ship," Adams corrected himself, "Dr. Chakwas contacted me. Asked me to help with your mission."

" _Did_ she?" Shepard asked, surprised.

"She did. I didn't have your back…and I'm sorry for that." There. It was out.

"Why'd you sit out?" Shepard asked, her voice lightly neutral.

"I didn't trust Cerberus—I didn't trust that it was really you. And, as an Alliance officer, I don't just up and leave my post."

Shepard jostled his elbow with her own. "I appreciate that, Adams. Being Alliance first, I mean. Don't beat yourself up over this. Alenko didn't come along, either."

Adams nodded to show he heard her.

"Hey, it was a crap assignment. And the food _sucked_."

Adams chuckled at that. "Still."

Shepard twitched her shoulders. "You're here, now. So, what do you think about our SR-2?"

"If there's one good thing I can say about Cerberus, they know how to build a ship. A couple minor safety concerns, but nothing I can't work with."

Shepard chuckled. "You sound like my old engineers. Eek and Meek—they were quite the double act. I kinda worried about Donnelly from time to time, but Daniels was solid as a rock." Shepard shook her head. "They're two I would love to have back. Former Alliance, good kids."

"Well, if you can find any talented engineers, send them my way. Not that I can't handle this myself," he added.

"But you've got to sleep sometime. Don't worry, EDI can handle it. Right, EDI?"

" _Of course, Shepard,_ " EDI answered promptly.

"EDI's quite the asset. It was a little strange at first, talking shop with an AI, but Joker seemed to trust her, and eventually I saw her uses. Even came to like her."

" _A_ I?" Shepard asked with convincing innocuousness.

Adams snorted, enjoying Shepard's attempt to cover for the AI. If he hadn't known the truth, her response would have derailed all suspicions, leaving him sure he was crazy. "Didn't take long for me to catch on. Mostly it was those problems that kept fixing themselves. Besides, have you seen her hardware? _Way_ too much processing power for a lowly VI." It was a compliment, and he hoped EDI would take it that way.

EDI waited for a moment, as if debating whether to admit the truth. Then, apparently deciding her cover was sufficiently blown, " _You never exhibited any skepticism, Lt. Adams_." There was a tone of sardonic disbelief in her voice.

Adams found himself grinning; he'd been leery of the Cerberus AI at first, but between Joker's ease around her and what he eventually recognized as efforts to protect her, he'd left his concerns private and unvoiced. "What? And give myself away? I tried disconnecting her from some of the major processes—discreetly, of course—but no luck."

"She's got to be careful. Keep the likes of you from unplugging her. You ready to go public, EDI? As far as the crew goes?" Shepard asked.

" _They will come to the correct conclusion eventually. I would prefer to let them figure it out for themselves._ "

"No problem," Shepard nodded.

Silence descended, a comfortable one, as Shepard and Adams regarded the drive core. "If you've got safety concerns, keep me apprised."

"I'll do that, Commander. But I wouldn't let it worry you; the _Normandy's_ not going to go out on you in the middle of a fight," Adams answered.

"Good to know." She pushed herself off the console. "Carry on, Adams."

"Aye-aye, ma'am." A feeling of nostalgia washed over Adams as he turned back to his console. In a galaxy gone wrong, it was nice when something brought a sense of normalcy.


	57. Status Quo

"EDI, get Hackett on the line and let whoever passes for medical authority on the Citadel know we're inbound with a critical case," Shepard directed. "Tell Udina we're here, and let me know when we dock." Udina would need to know, since the Council needed to convene to hear about the leap forward information and the war effort had taken.

" _I have raised Adm. Hackett on the primary QEC, Shepard. Huerta Memorial is sending a team. They will be waiting for us at the docking bay. Ambassador Udina has been apprised and says he'll see what he can do. We will be arriving in about fifteen minutes,_ " EDI replied.

Shepard blessed her efficiency. "Thanks." With that, she disappeared into the communications room, finding the QEC capture pad on the floor and taking up a position within it.

" _Shepard? Are you reading me?_ " Hackett asked, an uncharacteristic concern in his voice.

"I read you," Shepard answered, watching his figure coalesce over the QEC. "Sorry I'm late checking in. There were complications." To put it mildly. At least, she thought grimly, EDI had been able to ping him before they hit the relay to let him know to expect contact later.

Hackett was an old soldier: he wouldn't expect a full briefing with Reapers in the system. Not unless there was no alternative. " _Complications_?" Hackett demanded. " _But you did get what we were looking for_?"

"We got most of the data; I have a team munching on it now. Cerberus was there. They…mopped up the teams at the Archives. We didn't come across any survivors except for Dr. T'Soni." She bit her tongue. Cerberus was nothing if not thorough. Damn them.

Hackett grimaced, then shook his head wearily. Shepard wondered how much sleep he was losing. " _I was worried Cerberus might try something_. _So, what do we know, now?_ "

"Liara—Dr. T'Soni—says the information is a set of blueprints. If she hasn't sent you a copy of the report she's prepared to present to the Council, she'll have it to you soon." Shepard sighed heavily, resisted the urge to yawn. The urge vanished when she realized that she hadn't made any contact with the Council at all—the assumption that they would want to see her was quite an assumption.

She clung to it, however.

" _Blueprints for what?_ "

"She's calling it 'the Device' but from what _I_ can tell it's a weapon. A Reaper-killer." That brought its own concerns. "The way Liara talked about it, it sounds like a one-shot weapon…and that the Protheans thought that was all they'd need."

" _Space magic_ ," Hackett growled quietly, his weathered old face contracting in a scowl that threw his wrinkles and scars into sharp relief.

"How are you holding up, sir? The Fleet?"

" _We got away from Arcturus, but the losses there were heavy,"_ Hackett answered, the bitterness exposed in his tone. " _But we got most of Fifth Fleet out and we're shaking up anyone else we can. I won't say where we're loitering, just that we are."_

QEC was a new enough addition to the Alliance comm-system that Shepard understood his concern. It was a concern of habit, not of practicality.

" _What about you?"_

Shepard smiled wryly at the pleasantry. "Fantastic."

" _Shepard, ten minutes to dock,_ " EDI intoned.

"I'm docking with the Citadel in ten minutes. I'll talk to the Council and report back to you if the situation changes," Shepard announced. She teetered on telling Hackett that the team was now one man short, but discarded the idea. He'd tell her what she already knew: losses were inevitable and, if he died, Alenko would simply be the first of many. She didn't need the demoralizing statement, so she didn't leave herself open to it.

" _Do that_ ," Hackett agreed. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, then put it back on. " _Do you know what the hardest part of fighting a war is?"_

Shepard thought she knew: the losses, the helplessness. She'd had a taste of that, so far, and knew that bigger helpings were in store for everyone, soon enough. Nevertheless, she humored him. "What's that?"

" _The hurry up and wait. Keep in touch, Shepard."_ He disconnected, leaving her alone in the dim room and the silence.

The hurry up and wait. Shepard gritted her teeth: she could see how that would be pretty bad, too.

Shepard took a deep, fortifying breath. So, Fifth Fleet was largely intact, but the rest was in a questionable state. She judged, from Hackett's grim wording, that Arcturus was no longer there. Just debris and wreckage.

That, at least, was something she'd expected; it was one of the few 'conventional' things the Reapers did. They'd take out the power structure….though why they hadn't just hit the Citadel in one fell swoop—they were more than capable—she didn't know. It bothered her, made her wonder if they weren't pushing as much of the population in that general direction, that last 'bastion of safety' before hitting it, and taking out a big chunk of influential organics.

Because the wealthy and the powerful would try to get to the Citadel.

" _Commander. Councilor Udina has left you a message: he'll arrange a Council meeting as soon as he can. Dock with the Citadel and proceed to the Presidium. He will contact the ship, and I will forward his messages to you."_

Shepard appreciated EDI not giving Udina the ability to contact her personally. And, EDI being EDI, the lag between her receiving a message and her forwarding it to Shepard would be low, if not negligible. "Thanks, EDI. I appreciate that."

" _We have docked, Shepard. The medical team is requesting to come aboard."_

"Get them in here. I'll meet them at the airlock." Shepard turned her steps hurriedly towards the helm, pausing only long enough for the biometric scanner protecting the war room to do its job. It was an inconvenience, but she accepted it as 'one of those things' that couldn't be changed.


	58. Transfer

"Watch his head!" Shepard relayed as the medics loaded Alenko onto a stretched.

"Who's the attending?" one of the medics demanded.

"Dr. T'Soni and myself—I have special forces medical certifications." Not that it meant much, but it was enough that she was not asked to stand back. "He's got head trauma and a cracked visor that exposed him to exterior Martian conditions. After sealing with omnigel, we treated with O2 and standard practices. We think there's hematoma of the brain, possibly bleeding."

"All right," one of the medics stopped as Alenko's stretcher was loaded into the ambulance. "Got room for one of you."

"I'm his CO. Liara, get down to the Embassy, tell Udina we've had a complication and I'll pay him my respects as soon as I can. Vega, keep in radio contact. Just in case."

Vega nodded, a mere tip of the chin as he watched the proceedings.

"Thank goodness the Council always keeps you waiting," Liara said as Shepard climbed into the ambulance. "Let me know when you know something."

"Will do," Shepard confirmed before the doors were pulled closed. She settled back, forcing herself to listen to the babble and chatter as the makeshift measures to keep Alenko from slipping quietly into death were reinforced or replaced by the skill of those more competent than she. "Where are we taking him?" She asked one of the techs who seemed to be support in case extra hands were needed.

"Huerta Memorial Hospital. Best care on the Citadel," one of the medic answered, tone full of practiced reassurance.

Shepard nodded.

"Can you tell us about the injury?" The tech pulled out a clipboard.

"It's been hours since the original injury. He had his head slammed into a shuttle wall a few times," Shepard relayed, falling back on facts to keep her emotions from tangling up and causing her difficulties. She needed the cold logic, now.

If there was time to worry because she could do nothing else she would worry. Until then there was action.

"All right, I'm going to ask you some questions about his medical background, if you don't know just say so. Don't guess."

"He's a biotic," the fact was so ingrained in her mind that she forgot the techs would need to know. "We removed his amp and have the shield in place but his doctor will need to know. Watch him for…dehydration and possible low electrolyte levels. We had to guess when we hooked him up."

The tech nodded, scribbling busily. "Okay, any complications? He's old enough to be an L2."

"Migraines, but he's one of the most stable L2s the Alliance has." An unbiased assessment, she confirmed to herself.

"Medication?"

"I don't know." That ended up being the answer to too many questions.

"All right," one of the techs looked up, "They're ready for him, ICU ward, fourth floor, suite 4B."

Shepard hurried after, but realized within minutes that, once the doors to the ICU suite sealed, all she could do was wait. She stayed long enough to watch the techs hook Alenko up to what looked like an entire server room before the glass that allowed people to see into the suite turned opaque.

Shepard bit her lip, but forced herself to return to the waiting room. Now she could do nothing. The sense of helplessness made her feel sick…

"Siha?" The voice came from quite near her shoulder, in a tone that suggested he had called her by name several times already.

"Thane!" If she were anyone else, Shepard would have hugged him. However, she wasn't, so she didn't. She did, however, grip the proffered forearm and clap him on the shoulder. "I didn't see you."

"No. What's happened? Usually a crisis makes you more observant, not less—you walked right past me." He smiled wryly.

"One of my former crewmen was just admitted to ICU, fifteen hours after initial injury. It's a head injury and I can't do anything else."

"Reapers?" Thane dropped his voice.

"Cerberus."

"I see." Thane glanced around, then towed Shepard over to one side. "You cannot stay?"

"I'll stay as long as I can but…" she shook her head. "Invasions don't stop because someone gets hurt."

"Cerberus may take advantage of your friend's condition. Let me worry about this," Thane took her by the shoulders, reinforcing the declaration. "I will protect him while he's vulnerable. You worry about your end and let me worry about what goes on within these walls."

Shepard studied his face closely. "You're not doing well, are you?"

"It is…a good time in my life to be generous," Thane evaded neatly.

Shepard closed her eyes, realizing exactly how tired she was.

"I was worried when Earth was hit. I tried to get you a message but…"

"I haven't checked my messages in…at all." She rubbed her neck forced her mind to speed up. If it slowed down much more she would fall asleep where she stood.

"How bad is it?" Thane asked, eyebrow ridges drawing together.

Shepard bit her lip. "Bad. Husks were just the beginning. They've got…new stuff. I don't know, it's all pretty sick. Shock troops, ground units, flagships—it's everything we didn't want to see. They're on Earth, they destroyed Arcturus totally—nothing but wreckage there…"

"Did any of…the old crew…escape with you?" he asked.

"EDI and Joker. Major Alenko was part of my original crew." She glanced at the doors leading into the ICU rooms.

" _Commander, heads up: C-Sec's on its way for a chat,_ " Vega's voice declared over the radio. " _Couldn't tell him where you were, but he's a smart-cop type."_

"You get his name?" Shepard asked, holding up a hand to indicate to Thane that this was a separate conversation.

" _Bailey—said you'd know him."_

"Right. Thanks, Vega." Shepard took a deep breath. "Bailey's going to be paying us a visit."

"My, my, it's a day for meeting old acquaintances."

After an awkward silence. "How's Kolyat?"

Thane smiled. "Well. He visits almost every day." 


	59. Fight

It was a fight to see the strong features without the discoloration of bruises and other superficial damage.

"Kaidan?" Shepard whispered, peering down at him, knowing he wouldn't hear her. There was no time, wherever he was, there was no pressing need to _wake up_ , there was…whatever was in his head. The things around his body didn't matter. Didn't exist. It was a safe, temporary state—temporary in that either he would wake up or slip away.

She swallowed hard, bent low over his ear. Her sinuses stung as she weighed what she was about to ask. She had been forced to come back, had not been given a choice in the matter. This was…different. Disparate enough because she was _asking_ , placing a tentative request he probably would not even hear.

Not where he was.

"Kaidan," she whispered, choosing her words carefully, "I know what I'm asking you to come back to. Pain. Uncertainty. Fear. Everything I hated Cerberus for bringing me back to face." It had been a terrible moment when she realized how cruel a thing had been done to her—without consultation or consent. Waking up on the operating table, memories and Cipher bits cutting like razors into the soft tissue of her mind still made her spine tingle uncomfortably. "But…but I may need you. Soon. Guess I need you already, if we're being truthful without omission. I need…your strength, I guess, but that's not the right word. Your warmth, your…steadiness. I don't…I don't want to try to do this without you. Somewhere. Even if it's not…not anywhere nearby."

The treacherous tears welled up in her eyes, forcing her to look toward the ceiling to keep them back. She would like to think her emotions hadn't compromised her judgment. However, the more she thought about it the more she came to the conclusion that all that had to happen to see poor judgment was losing the hope that maybe, _maybe_ there was something more than the bleakness of war and loss within the panoramic of her world.

"It's just…my little moment of selfishness, but…you walked away from me once, don't just slip away like this now. I-I'd infinitely prefer a slammed door." It didn't make sense when said aloud, and she wished she hadn't. However, it contained the basic idea.

She couldn't take it anymore. She composed her expression, turned on her heel, and strode out. She couldn't tell the attending doctor 'take care of him', she couldn't tell anyone to call her if something changed, she couldn't sit there and wait for him to wake up—as he once had for her.

Not that he'd known her particularly well on that occasion.

"Don't worry," Dr. Chakwas said soothingly as soon as Shepard reemerged, "Huerta isn't going to let him go without a fight. Dr. Michel in particular."

Shepard did not point out that Dr. Michel was not Alenko's attending physician…but maybe Dr. Chakwas could elbow her way in, seeing that Alenko was once her patient. How did that work in the medical community? "I didn't know that thing was a synthetic—I just thought it was…a Cerberus science experiment, or maybe I'm just getting old and slow…I feel old." Shepard bit her lip, unsurprised to make such an admission to Dr. Chakwas.

"I know, and I understand why. Here, you need caffeine."

"After I finally learned to cut back?" Shepard asked almost bleakly as Dr. Chakwas poured a disposable cup of coffee and handed it to her.

"Funny time to quit, Shepard."

"The caffeine made me crazy at night. If they hadn't sneaked me into the gym, I'd have gone…wheeeooop." Shepard twirled her finger in the air to indicate the gibbering sort of insanity. "Never thought I'd feel this old."

"Old because you're tired or old because you feel your eyesight is going?"

Shepard didn't answer. She wasn't sure she knew what the answer was.

"You let me worry about Kaidan. He's a—"

"Please don't say he's a fighter," Shepard put in wearily, "there's only so much fight in a person, and I don't know what his mileage is. That isn't," she added quickly, "a vote of no confidence…"

"I know, Shepard. I was going to say 'such a conscientious individual that he wouldn't dream of checking out for a little bump on the head'."

Shepard's laugh sounded like a sneeze. "He is at that. Well, if I'm going to worry, I'd better do it now…get it out of my system before we have to ship out again."

"Do you know where you're going? Can you say? If…when he wakes, he'll want to know."

Shepard shifted uneasily. "I'm supposed to be meeting with the Council."

"Drink your coffee, you'll need it."

Shepard gave another sneezing laugh, but obediently drained the hospital sludge without complaint. Then, with unerring aim, she tossed the cup into the nearest waste bin.

"I see there's nothing wrong with your eyes. And caffeine is the near-universal pick-me-up."

"Is that your way of saying I'm not old?" Shepard asked, popping her neck.

"That's my way of saying maybe you'd benefit from a few days _here_." Dr. Chakwas' eyes gleamed. "I'm sure I can find _something_ wrong with you, and—"

"No deal, Doc. I'll fight the Reapers, somehow, you can keep your needles and scalpels and…and…yeah. Use them on Alenko: if- _when_ he wakes up, I'll laugh about him being tortured by you doctors and your endless tests."

"And there's that charming personality. I'll tell him you said that."

"Tell away. He'll tell you he probably deserves that comment." Shepard's mouth twitched with grim humor. It was clear that her words were more in the vein of messages on an answering machine meant to boost morale.

"Now that you're fighting with _me,_ take it out of this hospital and apply it to someone against whom you can win."

"Like the Council?"

Dr. Chakwas smiled wickedly. "Shepard, think this over: the worst _they_ can do is ignore you. The worst _I_ can do…"

"Gotcha."


	60. Scare

"Councilors," Shepard broke in, her voice strong, ringing in the open spaces, " _this_ is the sum of all fears. This is _not_ a traditional war. Any attempts to fight it that way will end in utter annihilation not only of one species, but of all of us. The only way to win is to employ the turian philosophy of war."

"And what do you know about the turian philosophy of war?" the turian councilor asked, though with more interest than scorn.

"It's total, sir. We find out where to kick and keep kicking. This is no longer a case of dropping a bomb to level a city block. This is a case where we're going to lose several ships to injure a destroyer, maybe a fleet to take down one flagship." Silence descended in the wake of her words. "Ladies and gentleman, most of you aren't career soldiers. I am. I'm telling you: stand together or die separately. Those are the _only_ options, regardless of whether you're a Council race, an associate race, or neither like so many in the Terminus Systems. Now is _not_ the time to draw party lines."

"This _is_ a time to stand together—" the asari councilor began.

"Great. Councilors, we have to un-classify all data from the encounter with Sovereign. I've been in the military long enough to know that just because something's suppressed doesn't mean it's destroyed. We've got—"

"Commander, you are putting the cart before the…horse," the asari interrupted serenely.

Shepard's blood went cold, her expression faded to frozen horror as comprehension dawned on her. "With all due respect, this Council is going to get us all killed. Or worse, repurposed and used as shock troops." Maybe she _shouldn't_ tell them about being processed into the organic component of a new Reaper.

"Commander, this isn't—" the salarian began.

Or maybe she _should_ …

"This is the _perfect_ time for me to share the nightmare stories, Councilor, because it's clear to me that this _isn't_ getting through to you. Turn _off_ your public opinion poll trackers, _silence_ your message alerts and _listen_ , for _once_ in your _lives_!"

Shepard's flow of words continued as she cued her omnitool, producing, enlarging, and refining a picture. "Husks, originally encountered on Eden Prime—repurposed humans." She changed the image. "Abominations on Horizon, also human. _They_ frag weapons and shields long enough for the regular husks to swarm you. Scion, Horizon, powerful biotic, a husk conglomerate. The Reapers wiped out Kar'shan before they hit Earth…"

"…I didn't realize you were so attached to the batarian homeworld…" Udina noted dryly.

"And now there's a _new_ form of husk— _this_ lovely fella." Shepard scowled at the Council, past the image of a Cannibal. "Are we drawing any correlations yet…or am I still delusional?"

"What you fail to appreciate is that many of _our_ worlds have Reapers encroaching," the asari replied, smoothly as ever…or _was_ it as smooth as ever? Shepard thought she detected something else, but it was gone in a moment.

"What _you_ fail to appreciate, Councilor, is that the brunt of the attack is aimed at Earth," Udina began.

"How do we know this is the brunt of the attack…?" the salarian broke in.

"Because _we_ pissed them off," Shepard snapped. "Did _anyone_ ever _read_ any report I forwarded?"

Clearly not.

Shepard beamed something to the Councilor's omnitools. "While you were pretending that batarians were kidnapping colonists, those same colonists were being melted down into _paste_ and fed into the superstructure of a proto-Reaper. Still _alive_! There were enough pods on the ship we infiltrated to hold every human in the Terminus Systems _and_ on Earth itself.

"The Reapers prodded our defenses. My crew—under then-Captain Anderson—was there and we kicked back. Frankly, I don't want to be part of the next annihilation event. Not like _this_." She cued her omnitool, bringing up images of the proto-Reaper. "It took an asari Justicar, an extremely powerful human biotic, an exceptional krogan with an M-920 Cain and myself with a Collector's particle beam and we _still_ almost got our heads handed back to us. The thing was _barely_ conscious!"

It occurred to Shepard here that perhaps she had miscalculated, had scared them so badly that they would opt to turtle up, recoil from the horrors to which she had—for lack of a better phrase—become accustomed.

Few things the Reapers churned out surprised her anymore. Not after the proto-Reaper. Not when she was sure that the Cannibals were mostly repurposed batarians with human…grafts.

"We must," Udina said, his voice unusually firm, lacking the bluster Shepard associated with him, "stand together."

"Need I remind you that the last time we fought the Reapers Shepard sacrificed…"

" _Don't_." Shepard's word cut into the asari Councilor's sentence like a knife. "Don't you _dare_ twist that decision any further! Not anymore. Not to my _face_. I sacrificed the former Council in hopes of securing a killing blow against Sovereign. The alternative was a full scale Reaper invasion _at that time_. I made a soldier's choice based on the information I had. If you don't believe me, ask _him_ ," she motioned violently to the turian councilor. "He was soldier: _he knows_." She took a deep breath but immediately began expending it. "And _since_ we're clearing the air…it's funny how you people forget that the _Destiny Ascension's_ crew comprised some _ten thousand_ people at minimum."

" _Regardless_ of her motives, following Shepard's lead ensured our survival at the time." Shepard's jaw almost dropped at this concrete support from Udina. Maybe a crisis could make him a real human being…

"True, but what if it's not enough this time?" the turian asked, grim and almost tired.

"The reports are dire," the salarian agreed. "If we throw everything at the Reapers on Earth and lose…"

"Right now Shepard is _the_ expert on the Reapers. I suggest we follow her lead until someone _else_ formulates a better plan," Udina answered.

No one missed the implications in his words.


	61. Recoil

"Councilors, we already _have_ that plan," Liara broke in quickly, seeing that Shepard's face had finally blanched of all color. It had taken most of the conversation for her to go white with suppressed fury, and now she seemed lost for words, shaken out of herself by the stone wall still before her.

Liara grimaced as well. It was almost unbelievable, the level of resistance Shepard met at almost every turn.

It was _Udina_ obsessing over an unprimed, uncoordinated attack to liberate Earth. It was _Udina_ who had always had the obvious pro-human agenda. It was disgusting that the only time he could rally behind Shepard was when she was so unbelievably right that saying she was wrong would be political suicide.

She wished Samara was here: even to the asari Councilor, a Justicar's words would have weight. She didn't know what weight, or in what direction that weight would push things, but the support would be much appreciated. She should have thought of that sooner. Maybe she, Shadow Broker that she was, could have arranged something…

Liara mentally shook herself, returning to her original train of thought.

Forget Udina.

 _Shepard_ was working towards a very basic goal: get everyone onboard and _then_ set up a plan, because that plan would need to incorporate the Device—the Device upon which she began to elaborate, though with only half her attention on the discourse.

Shepard knew there was no saving Earth on the short term horizon. And Shepard's concern really was for the galaxy at large. She'd seen enough of what the Reapers could do to stop drawing the eternal lines of division between ' _us'_ and _'them.'_

The only 'us' was everyone, every sapient organic out there. The only 'them' were the Reapers. It was all black and white. She made it that simple.

Liara continued with her explanations, trying to remain as neutral as possible with Shepard's drift prickling angrily, like a spicy powder caught in the back of the throat. It made it difficult to repress her own annoyance and indignation.

"Do you believe in this, Shepard, after what you've seen of the Reapers?" the unexpectedly calm inquiry of the turian Councilor—in the wake of the asari Councilor's derisive comment about 'a fool's errand'—seemed to wake Shepard from some silent trance into which she had fallen.

Shepard flicked her eyes up to meet the councilor's before she spoke. "Dr. T'Soni believes it can work." Liara drew herself up a little: the use of the title lent weight to the assertion, that these were not the words and explanations of a child, but of an educated individual who had—in addition to education—firsthand experience with fighting Reapers. "That's enough for me: I believe it can work."

The considering silence did not last long, which disappointed Liara. Why ask Shepard a question, which she was expected to answer, if no one wanted to hear an answer? It was the same old story, no matter how solid, how _real_ Shepard's so-called 'delusions' were.

"The Council cannot give Earth the military support it needs. Our own planets must come first," the asari Councilor declared after a moment—a very _brief_ moment, Liara felt—of thought.

Liara's eyes narrowed. At the moment it really did seem as though she was looking at a Prime Minister and a Parliament, _not_ a cooperative council. Perhaps this councilor got in the same way Udina had, by brownnosing her way as high as she could and then waiting for something to happen to the previous Councilor. Where was the wisdom of the asari now?

Dark plans—plans Shepard would never approve of—began to percolate in the back of Liara's mind. The Shadow Broker might need to levy support with very draconian methods if things continued on this course…

"The Salarian Union is convening a summit amongst our species," the salarian motioned to indicate the turians and asari as being part of this. "If we can secure our own borders we may be able to aid you."

Liara's considerations of how to stack the deck to garner the help Shepard needed ground to a halt. She didn't know if this was simply a poorly worded sentence or if it really was the first sign that the majority of the galaxy would prefer fragmentation in hopes of weathering the storm by falling through the chinks while other species fought and died.

What she did know was that Shepard was, finally, going to lose her temper and show it. Shepard's drift had never felt like _this_.

"Our fleets are also engaged," the asari Councilor agreed. "Honesty is all I can offer, Commander: I will not make a promise of rescue I cannot keep."

Shepard's drift, a blasting furnace of anger, frustration, and fear for the future suddenly snuffed out, went totally silent. It made Liara's physical ears ring.

"Then we can all be dead together. Get your cyanide pills ready," Shepard snarled, "you'll need them."

"Commander," the turian spoke up when Shepard turned to leave. His voice had an imperative tone.

"Councilor," Shepard did not turn around, merely glanced over her shoulder. "There's a war on, and if I can't win even a minor victory on _this_ battlefield I'm going back to the one I know. Maybe someone can come up with a way to hold the Reapers off until you're all finished fooling around and get your heads out of your asses and into the game." Shepard's unbridled (and unprecedented) tongue lashing ensured her unimpeded exit.

No one wanted to hear what would come out of her mouth next—though indignation was stamped all over the salarian's face, icy disapproval on the asari's, and…something like deep consideration on the turian's. It was all Liara got out of the brief glance she cast them before falling in with Shepard, trotting to keep up with Commander's long strides.

It was the first time Shepard had walked out on the Council instead of the Council walking out on her.


	62. Bitter

Shepard pounded the console that would take her away from the Council Chambers, her ears ringing, her head throbbing. "I really screwed _that_ up," she growled.

"I don't know what I can say, Shepard."

"That my diplomacy officially _sucks_ ," Shepard grunted. "I'm out of practice with anything but knuckles diplomacy." She swallowed hard, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Good as it felt to tell them off, it didn't win us any ground. The Reapers just got here and we're already fracturing…" Shepard chewed on her lip, tried to stop the adrenaline shakes.

It hadn't really felt good to tell the Council off. There was so much at stake and they wanted to fall back on conventional warfare or—she suspected—sit-and-see policies.

"Perhaps things will change once another Council homeworld starts to burn," Liara declared. "Once they see their own resources being decimated."

"Resources we need," Shepard sighed, shaking her head. "Sorry…I don't…" she waved to indicate that she couldn't express what was in her head.

"I know, Shepard."

"I really did think that the Reapers' arrival would…I don't know. Change their mindsets." Shepard's face twitched, her aura turning a flat black. "And instead I terrify them with Reaper stories. Smooth move, Shepard, _damn_ it!" She kicked the wall, leaving a black mark on the white expanse.

"You can't make them see reason."

"Especially when it's not _there_ ," Shepard sighed, leaning on the wall, her brow touching the cool surface. The contact made her realize just how hot she felt. Hot and clammy. "I can't believe I lost it in there."

"Your world is burning, you have a team-member in bad condition, and no way to act while the galaxy's nightmares are just beginning. I think you have a right to lose it. Frankly, I'm not sure how you've managed to keep it together this long."

Shepard didn't know if Liara was just humoring her or if the asari really meant what she said. Her omnitool suddenly flashed; someone had left her a message without bothering to try getting to her directly. Her stomach clenched with apprehension, but the message came from Udina, a crisp, terse order to meet him in his office. "Udina wants a word. Probably to chew me out." Her weary tone suggested that, this time, she had it coming.

The more she played it over in her head, the more she realized how impolitic she'd been, how rash in her willingness to dump her knowledge in their laps, to push them into action. It was the same story: the harder she pushed, the more they dug in their heels.

"They're scared," she said aloud, more for her benefit then for Liara's. "They're scared and don't know how to cope…" but even this tasted bitter to her.

Her whole world, her whole galaxy, was nothing but gall and bile.

The elevator opened, prompting her to be silent. The Citadel looked so bright and shiny and clean that it made her sick. On worlds being savaged by the Reapers there was ash and smoke and death. Here…

Maybe that was part of the problem. It seemed so far away from the war, so untouched, that she fought twice as hard to bring the war here. Even as she combatted the lie of peace the Citadel tried to tell, that lie made her images of destruction and perversion that much worse.

Her attempts to bring the reality to this place were counterproductive. "Screw the Council," she grunted. If there was only a way to appeal to the various leaderships directly…

Her omnitool flared again, this time from EDI. "Oh no…" Shepard breathed, her mouth hanging open, her expression frozen.

"What? Is Alenko…" Liara's voice broke, her expression round, skin blanched.

"No." Shepard met Liara's eyes, "Palaven." She swallowed hard. "They just hit Palaven. EDI caught an emergency broadcast: the fleet just engaged the Reapers in the Apien Crest."

Liara bit the inside of her lip, knowing that Shepard's thoughts had jumped to one turian in particular. "I know you wouldn't want Reapers to savage anyone's homeworld," Liara said gently, keeping her voice down. People had begun to slow down, to stare at the dumbstruck human and her asari companion, "but maybe this will be the lever needed."

Shepard nodded. If humanity could kick the Reapers in the teeth, then surely the turians could kick them in the knees. But then what?

She was sinking into a mire of fear and doubt, both compounded by helplessness and worry. "We need to see Udina," Shepard said quietly. It wasn't much, but it would be doing something. The man was a slug but he wasn't blind. Maybe, just maybe, he'd have an idea, some inkling of what could be done.

She might have had some skill as a negotiator at one point, but clearly the ability had atrophied. She hoped she could recondition it before she needed it for a life-or-death situation.

She forced her feet to move, wishing that she could just fade into the background. But she'd been a part of this fight for too long, been trying to carry the battle with only a handful of supporters for too long. It was a burden under which she staggered, but she couldn't just put it down.

The bitterness returned. She had no idea where Garrus was, only that Palaven seemed as likely a place as any other.

And the Reapers? What was their master strategy? Kar'shan, Arcturus, Earth, now Palaven…would they just whittle down the strong and let the less militant, less established species scurry around to be slaughtered at the Reapers' leisure? Who was next? Salarians? Asari? Would they do like some of the ancient Earth cultures did, position their warriors in a circle and slowly, methodically, encroach to a central point, steamrolling in waves anything the first ring missed?

She shook her head. She had to get a hold of herself. Erratic behavior was not going to help, especially not if Udina was the same as ever.


	63. Interpersonal

Shepard waited alone in Udina's office for over an hour. Once it became apparent Udina intended them to wait, she sent Liara to do what she needed to do to keep 'her boss' happy and up to date.

Liara, perhaps reading into the suggestion that Shepard wanted to be alone for a bit, agreed that it would be wise, and left.

Since she couldn't do much at the moment, Shepard gladly took advantage of the peace and quiet, settling at Udina's desk and jotting down all her thoughts, organizing them, making sense of them, of her ideas as they formed. It felt better just getting them into the document on her omnitool and out of her system. She should have done it earlier, she knew…but on the Normandy she'd worried about other things. Her crew. The ship's readiness. What, exactly, Hackett would decide was the best place for the Normandy. She was still the best ship in her class, the most advanced. Shepard could think of several things the Normandy would be ideal for, and ferrying her around was not necessarily one of them.

By the time Udina came in, blustering and harried as he always was, Shepard felt notably calmer, better able to focus. She didn't remember the last time she'd relied on cue cards, but she left her document of organized thoughts open and ready to access, in case she needed to work through a haze of indigestion. Udina had that effect on her.

"They're a bunch of self-concerned jackasses, Shepard!" Udina spat.

Shepard smile wryly. Maybe the councilor's seat wasn't as comfy as he'd have liked.

"We may have a seat on the Council but humanity will always be considered second rate!"

The smile vanished. Udina didn't understand any better than the other Councilors: this wasn't about humanity or any other race. This was about unity or death. It sounded dramatic, too much so, maybe, but that didn't change the reality.

And she'd thought it was bad when almost no one believed her. This was almost worse.

"Forget who's second rate," Shepard said, glad to hear her usual calm businesslike tones transfer from her mind to her mouth. "What did the Council decide to do? They didn't decide to do _nothing_ …did they?"

"In the wake of your tantrum, you're lucky they did anything at all," Udina groused. "They're calling for a summit—well, the salarians and the turians are. I get the feeling the asari will stay out of it. Damn prima donnas. Mark my words, Shepard: they'll stay on the sidelines until the Reapers come to their doors, then they'll cry like damsels in distress."

Shepard sincerely hoped this was just Udina's usual anti-alien vehemence. Her stomach clenched, but she forced it to relax. Human-centric tendencies and attitudes did not make a person a Cerberus supporter. Udina was too much of a political creature to let his humanity-first stance jeopardize his power.

And, if she had to admit it, Udina wasn't much different from the rest of the Councilors: all of them, though they used discretion, probably had their own people's interest first and foremost. Instead of anger, this time she felt pity: they needed to adjust to an entirely new paradigm of thinking, and do so quickly. The problem was that these things never happened overnight, but they didn't have the luxury of time.

"They're working the details as we speak. Or pretending to." He shook his head, casting himself into his chair. He glanced over at her. "Don't look so worried. I have a few shots left in my locker. Saving them for a rainy day." He was silent for a moment. "I knew a lot of people on Arcturus. Had to use a dedicated VI to keep track of Parliament members' birthdays."

Udina got up restlessly, frowning at Shepard. "I don't suppose you'd let me offer you a drink?"

"Sorry. I've got a low tolerance and a long day ahead. A little water might be nice, though." It was the best compromise she could make. She would die before she let Udina know about her allergy. He was the type to remember that sort of detail 'for a rainy day.'

Udina nodded, accepting the compromise, pouring himself something green and ordering an aide to bring up a glass of water.

He waited until the water arrived, then held up his glass. "Here's to being right. Dammit."

Shepard chuckled involuntarily, wondering vaguely why Udina was being so…affable. She still remembered his question to Anderson about having her within shooting distance of the Citadel—the Normandy's, not her own—' _do the words political shit-storm mean anything to you?_ '

No, this was not friendliness, she thought as she sipped her water. It had ice in it. Somehow, the ice seemed like such a luxury. Booze could be drunk warm, could be traded or smuggled. Ice, though…

She shook herself mentally, realized part of her problem was lack of sleep. A lack of it…and fear of it.

"Shepard?" Udina asked.

"Sorry." She blinked, covered her eyes with one hand. "Long day." She sipped at her water again, forcing herself to consider the situation. No, this wasn't a friendly chat. This was Udina playing politician. The fact that she could differentiate gave her hope: maybe she was not as horribly impolitic as she thought earlier. Just angry at the time, angry and not thinking straight.

"How long are you on the Citadel?"

"No idea. Hackett's got final say on that. Got plenty to do, though. Don't take it amiss if I ask whether you need anything else from me?"

"A copy of your asari friend's report on this device."

"You'll have it. Soon." It was probably already in his inbox. She drained her water. "Thanks for the drink. Hang tough, Councilor." With this generic encouragement, she set the glass on an unused corner of his desk, not knowing where else to put it, and strode out.

That might just have been the most amiable meeting they'd ever had.


	64. Windfall

Shepard jerked awake, her mouth giving voice to words that seemed to have been prerecorded against a sudden return to consciousness. "Yes, EDI. What is it?" She gave a huge, shuddering yawn and forced herself to her feet.

She'd fallen asleep at her desk. She rubbed her eyes, then stepped into the bathroom, splashing cold water across her face. If Dr. Chakwas was here, the older woman would have immediately issued an injunction: get some real sleep or I'll give you _pills_.

" _You have received a priority alert_."

"From Hackett?"

" _From the human ambassador. He'd like you to come to his office when you have the opportunity_."

Shepard groaned softly, but took a deep breath. "Did he say what this is about?" Shepard doubted it, but rather than wonder she tried to remember who the human ambassador was, now that Udina had the Council seat.

No name came to her.

" _He said it had to do with the war effort. My opinion was that he was uncomfortable discussing it with a VI_." EDI's tone, or maybe the words she used, hinted at amusement.

"I can't imagine why, EDI," Shepard smirked wearily. "Can you get me the address? I'll take a cab."

" _Shepard_ —"

Shepard thought she knew what EDI was going to say—and as much as she did not want to hear it, she knew EDI had a valid point. And it was a bit hypocritical of her to urge everyone else to take care of themselves when she refused to do just that. "When I get back. I'll try when I get back."

-J-

Shepard stepped up to the human embassy, now located in the same hall as the other Council races' ambassadors. It must be a step up, she thought idly.

"Commander Shepard."

Shepard frowned at the gregarious greeting. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place him…

"Martin Burns," he declared holding out a hand for her to shake.

The name meant more than the face. "Ah, I remember you. I'm glad to see life's been treating you well."

"Yes, and it's thanks to you that I have that life. Please, sit down. Can I get you a drink?"

"Just water, if you've got it. Thank you." Well, at least she wasn't so tightly wound that she saw common courtesies as assassination attempts. The thought brought a cynical smile to her lips.

"I suppose you're on duty at all hours, now," Burns said as he brought her a glass.

Again, the glass had ice in it, and again she found herself thinking that it was such an odd little luxury. "What did you need me for, Ambassador?" she asked.

"Ah, it's more like what you need from me." Burns reached into his pocket and produced a keycard. "This is for you. From former Councilor Anderson. He said it was in case of an emergency, and you're on the list of people to grant access to it."

Shepard took the keycard. "What's it unlock?"

"Two or more storage containers. I imagine Anderson set up stockpiles of wartime goods before he left office. I doubt he told Udina…but he did tell me. And now I'm telling you," Burns answered before sipping his drink. He pursed his lips, and Shepard felt sure he was resisting the urge to ask her about Earth. "These are terrible days. Are you sure you don't want something a little stronger?"

"I would _love_ something a little stronger. But not while I'm on duty." Shepard frowned at her water, at the glassy-looking ice. "So, how'd you go from being the Chairman of the Parliamentary Sub-Committee for Transhuman Studies to the human ambassador on the Citadel?"

Burns smiled. "You mean how did I go from being a hostage to here?"

Shepard twitched her shoulders.

"That day was…it was a turning point for me. A change of paradigm. Yes, it was partly seeing how desperate those men and women were."

It struck Shepard, as a positive thing, that he didn't call them 'biotics' or 'L2s.' They were _people_.

"But it was partly meeting your crewman. I believe he's a Major with the Alliance now, yes?"

"Yes." Shepard was glad the word came out evenly, not betraying the fact that Alenko was trapped in some place where time didn't matter.

"I spoke with him a few times. For advice, you might say. It struck me that his case was no less than that of those other people. But he shouldered it, served with distinction an arm of the very entity that let ambitious career-builders use his situation as a stepping stone." Burns' tone was bitter, but it was the bitterness of foolishness overcome. "I was glad to make their situation my primary concern. I learned a thing or two about true dedication. And now I'm here," he gave a rueful snort, "a voice for the voiceless, and no, I didn't pick the designation."

Shepard chuckled at this. "I'm glad to hear it."

Burns was silent for a moment, then nodded. "I'm glad to be able to say it. I was able to make good on the promise I made to those people that day. And I wish to make good on a promise to you: if there's anything I can do to help you, if it's in my power, say so."

"I'll save that for a rainy day, Ambassador. Thank you."

Burns nodded. "I suspect there will be a great many rainy days in store of us all, Commander."

Shepard smiled, her eyes darting about the office. Burns was so much easier to deal with than Udina. He gave her hope for the kind of people who got into politics. The only question was how much steel he had in his backbone; with things going the way they were he'd need it.

But for now, it was nice to sit and make idle conversation while they sipped their drinks. Once her water was gone, however, she had to return to business.

Business in the form of Anderson's mystery containers.

-J-

Author's Note: I know Osoba is supposed to be the ambassador… but I rather expected Burns to fill the role. So here he is. ^_^ Osoba is next in line after Burns, with regard to the chain of command.


	65. Stockpile

Shepard had never seen this particular section of the Citadel Docks. This area was decidedly for long-term storage, though. "Right through here, Commander," the asari watchwoman declared, moving between two large containers. "Here you go. Three containers belonging to former Councilor Anderson…to be handed over to whoever's got the key to get them open." She nodded to the lock.

Shepard walked over, slipped the key in, and pulled it free as the lock disengaged. She slid the door open and peered into the darkness.

Boxes of varying sizes were packed into the container, most of them with stark white labels affixed to the left-hand side of the plane facing her. She recognized what they were: stockpiles. Anderson must have been hoarding materials for the impending war, using his position as Councilor to ensure that they stayed here, undisturbed.

And, somehow, Udina had never found out about them. Or, if he'd known, he simply hadn't thought it important enough to say anything.

As much as she disliked the man, Shepard didn't think this was the case. This was Anderson being subtle. Shepard cued her omnitool, punching in Liara's designation.

"Yes?" Liara asked, her blue face appearing in the image window.

"Liara, how's my cargo bay looking?" Shepard asked, wondering exactly what she had. Supplies for a long-term engagement, certainly. Anderson must have banked on shortages occurring before this was all over. He was probably right.

Shepard had arrived back at the Normandy after her meeting with Udina to find a shuttle parked in the cargo bay, with Liara moving what looked like an entire server room out of the shuttle and into the former XO's quarters. She'd sworn she was more interested in getting everything _out_ of the shuttle than getting everything hooked up as she went. At the time, Shepard hadn't cared one way or the other. Now, though, she was glad of the asari's practicality.

She wondered if Liara hadn't hidden her shuttle down here. Some of these containers were more than big enough to stick a shuttle in, and depending on the labels…

"A little cleaner, now, than it was when I got here," she answered. "Why? What's the matter?"

"I've got some…stuff…I need to pack in there. Just wanted to know how much room I had or if I should wait." She peered more closely at the nearest box, using the light of her omnitool to read the label. The box was about the size of a wheeled suitcase and the label indicated that it was meant for a male of certain proportions.

Clothes, Shepard decided, clothes and probably minor necessities. Anderson had also banked on a quick exit, on the crew being more like refugees than an actual crew. He must have had a crew roster in mind and made arrangements based on that. If anyone aboard didn't find something that fit, they were still on the Citadel and not yet under rationing restrictions.

"I'm sorry? I got distracted," Shepard admitted.

"I said," Liara repeated, "that you've got about half of it back. I can draft some of your crewmen to help move things up to the mess deck if I need to."

"Hang on. Is Vega still aboard?"

"No, he took advantage of the few hours' leave you granted. Most of those here…" Liara shook her head to indicate that the lures of the center of civilization were not enough to distract them from their troubles.

"All right. I'll hang up and get EDI on the radio. It'll take me some time to figure out what I've got here."

"I'll make good use of it," Liara answered. "I'll talk to you later, Shepard."

Shepard nodded, all she had time to do before Liara disconnected. "EDI," Shepard declared, cuing her radio.

" _Yes, Commander?_ "

"Put out a general notice: we're taking on supplies and need to get Liara's stuff out of the cargo bay. All helping hands are appreciated."

" _I will convey as much. Is there anything else?"_

"How's cracking that _thing_ in the AI core coming?" Shepard asked, forcing herself to remember the synthetic was there.

" _It is…progressing,_ " EDI answered. " _We will find the data, Shepard._ "

"Slow and steady, I know," Shepard answered. "Glad to hear it. Be careful."

" _Of course."_ Shepard could have sworn EDI sounded amused by the warning.

"Shepard out." Shepard disconnected. "You have a flashlight?" she asked the asari.

The asari smirked and held one out, her whole posture screaming 'just waiting for you to ask.'

Shepard opened the other two containers. Food. Medical supplies. Munitions. Basic necessities. Several of the boxes had labels simply stating 'Miscellaneous Goods', but Shepard thought she knew what those were and what they were for. Sometimes credits couldn't get you what you needed, for one reason or another. There was a benefit to having something that could be easily traded, desirable items, nothing black market. More…a grey area.

Shepard approved.

Replacement armor components. Shield generators. Anderson had enough materiel down here to start a military surplus shop.

Shepard sat down on one of the sturdy crates, lacing her fingers together and regarding her hands. She wished Anderson was here, but felt bolstered by his careful preparations. She suspected that Hackett wasn't entirely hands-free in this. This might even be the earliest form of preparation against the day when something 'bad' happened. There might be other caches like this sprinkled here and there at strategic points. Supply lines might become disrupted, but a little planning may have bought time before the squeeze set in.

It wasn't large-scale preparation, but it eased her chafed nerves. Someone, somewhere, had listened. Someone, several someones, had grouped up to do _something_.

Medigel. Dextro rations…Anderson must expect her to pick up crewmen along the way, maybe trusted in old friendships now that all hell had broken loose. There was no guarantee she would ever see any of her dextro comrades again…but she found she couldn't give up hope that she would.

"Find everything you're looking for?" the asari asked.

"Yes. I did."


	66. Flipped

"Commander Shepard? Commander Shepard!"

Shepard had heard that hail in that voice three times in her life—the first two left her with no comforting hope that anything good would come of hearing it again _this_ time.

Khalisa bint Sinan al-Jilani, yellow dog journalist who apparently hadn't given up trying to bait Shepard into some misstep (why the woman was such a bitch in this regard, Shepard had no idea), moved to block Shepard's progress.

Shepard _wanted_ to snarl at her. She had a man in the hospital; she'd just _run away_ from an attack on the human homeworld; she had a weird synthetic _thing_ aboard her ship being data-mined; the Council were still assholes; and there was absolutely _no_ pleasure to be had in saying 'I told you so' because no one was listening to 'I told you so' while they dealt with (or tried to deal with) the subject of that remark.

Al-Jilani seemed to have attained new levels of nastiness since the last time Shepard saw her. Twice they'd locked horns and twice Al-Jilani had come off the worse. Shepard had thought the woman would figure it out, find less able fodder for her tabloid-style journalism (and Shepard used the word loosely).

Apparently not, and Shepard knew if she didn't get her anger under control she was going to prove 'third time's a charm' and fall headlong into some verbal pitfall.

Shepard slowed to a stop.

"Commander Shepard. Kalisa bint Sinan al-Jilani."

As if she could forget. Maybe it was a backhanded compliment to her ability to forget the little nuisances that the woman kept feeling the need to introduce herself.

Shepard was on the verge of saying, as politely as she could, 'Yes, Ms. Al-Jilani. What can I do for you?'

However, al-Jilani ran over her. "Isn't it true you were on Earth when the Reapers attacked?"

Shepard saw where this was going and wanted to smack the woman. Not as an insult, but hopefully to smack some _sense_ into her. She hadn't _wanted_ to leave any more than Vega had; but when one looked at the bigger picture what good were two small marines against several hundred kilometers of Reaper several times over? She'd seen, what? Ten or more in Vancouver? It would be like shooting a speeding mag-lev with a popgun and hoping the train would stop before it flattened her.

Her fingernails bit into her palm, not the least because she _did_ feel a sense of guilt for having left—or for not having saved more people. In her mind's eye, the shuttle with the little boy in it exploded after having been sheared into by a Reaper laser.

"How do you justify running away while millions of people on Earth _die_?"

In this, conscience wasn't an issue. The galaxy was already falling apart, pulling like warm taffy into stringy threads that sagged and eventually broke under their own weight. It seemed like as big a job finding a way to bind up those loose threads, weave them into a net to throw back at the Reapers as it did to fight a Reaper on foot.

"Is that the best we can expect from the Alliance?"

So asked the woman who _hadn't_ been on Earth, who _wasn't_ in a conflict zone, and who would _die_ before she put on a uniform and did something actually constructive. Shepard itched to put her fist right in the middle of al-Jilani's face. There was no way she could miss at this range.

And al-Jilani _obviously_ hadn't understood more polite, refined versions of 'don't tangle with me.'

"I've come to get help for Earth—for _everyone_ ," Shepard answered mechanically. She found nothing but grim determination. Something Wrex had said last year echoed in her mind.

 _I'm going to drag your clan to glory whether you like it or not._

She would need a similar mindset. The politicos might not be smart, but everyone else in a society, especially militaries? This was clearly a time when it was permissible for a military to get up and walk out on the political structure it was supposed to support if that political structure kept its head up its ass (or cloaca, as applicable).

"What about all the people suffering while you play politics with the Council? What about them? How can you stand here while our families—"

It clicked for Shepard, and her growing indignation melted enough for a ray of compassion to illuminate what she was looking at accurately. Those questions were like distorted echoes of some of her own inner turmoil after Mindoir—though she'd never said most of it out loud, _especially_ not to Alliance personnel.

"Khalisa," Shepard declared bracingly, gripping the other woman's shoulder reassuringly. "We're doing everything that we can."

The harsh lines of al-Jilani's face softened just enough to expose grief and fear instead of the easier snide anger. "Before they cut the feeds…" she said softly, looking away from Shepard, "there were so many dead."

That there were. "Listen. We're going to stop the Reapers or die trying. But I need your help."

Al-Jilani's eyes flicked upwards, as if surprised to hear it. Well she might be, her track record being what it was. "What?" she asked, almost a whisper.

"Keep asking the hard questions. Don't let the politicos anywhere near their whitewash. Don't let them gloss anything over." For a woman quick to pounce on a misstep, it was a job right up al-Jilani's alley.

Al-Jilani bit her lip, then nodded once, her eyes narrowing darkly. Shepard hoped she'd given the woman a push in the right direction and not launched one of those antiquated ICBMs in the wrong direction. "I will," she answered softly. "Thank you, Commander."

Shepard nodded once.

"We haven't always seen eye to eye," al-Jilani spat, as though if she didn't she wouldn't get the words past the gate of her teeth, "…but I'm glad you're on our side."

With that, and in haste, the woman decamped.


	67. Vindicated

Shepard sat down at her desk, wondering if she dared have a look at the new array of bruises forming on her spacer-pale skin. The bruises would give her something to think about, other than one of her crewmen near death in a hospital.

She ran a hand though her hair, shaking her head as she did so. It was turning into a lousy fortnight: she was so sick of being _right_ that she almost wished she could be wrong about something. 'Almost' because, with her luck, the one time she was wrong would be the one time she needed to be right.

But if she was so sure of having been right, why hadn't she…?

What? Why hadn't she _what_?

Grabbed that kid and dragged him along by the arm, kicking and screaming? He'd have only bolted as soon as she had to let go in order to fire on the enemy. She couldn't have saved him that way.

Been in three places at once? At the Archives first, on the synthetic's trail second, and thirdly ready to do battle with a supposedly-dead human who turned out to be a synthetic? No one had expected _that._ But she should have suspected _something_ …shouldn't she?

She could have elicited the Illusive Man's whereabouts from Miranda and set an Alliance black ops unit on him. That had appeal—why hadn't she? There had been time…hadn't there? Opportunity?

Her message terminal beeped at her, shattering her self-recriminations. Without paying attention, she brought up the new correspondence, inwardly groaned at the subject line.

Subject: Reinstatement.

It had the hallmarks of an encrypted transmission, which meant it was from Alliance High Command—whatever sufficed as High Command these days. That, effectively, meant Hackett.

With a sigh, she opened it.

Reinstatement.

What she wouldn't have given—it seemed like forever ago—to get a letter like this? Strange that, now that she had it, she didn't really want it. Her loyalties to the Alliance were not the same unswerving tunnel-vision of dedication that had existed three years ago and for many years before that.

In an effort to save her sanity, caught between the Council and the Alliance (then again between Cerberus and everybody else) she had redefined where her loyalty lay: it lay with the trillions of people in the galaxy who were under the threat of a Reaper invasion. The ones who were powerless to do anything about the oncoming onslaught.

Loyalty now lay in the spirit of the requirements and responsibilities placed upon her by the Council and the Alliance. It was the only way to stay sane and maintain some sense of personal integrity.

She opened the message, forcing herself to read it. She knew what it would say, of course—a written confirmation of Anderson's field reinstatement—but maybe there would be some indefinable comfort in an official communiqué. She'd never expected to get this sort of letter…but maybe the official capacity of it would shake loose some sense of…what?

What was it she hoped the stupid message might hold? There was no comfort to be found within the Alliance and she knew it. Too much had happened. Too much was at stake. Comfort was a luxury she would likely not be able to afford.

 _From: S. Hackett_

 _To: J. Shepard_

 _Captain Shepard:_

 _This letter formally acknowledges your reinstatement into the Alliance Navy per Adm. D. Anderson's recent verbal communication. It also confers upon you the rank of Captain, in recognition of your service and in light of your current responsibilities._

 _Under Emergency War Powers Regulation 903.5, you are hereby authorized to assume command of the_ Normandy _(SR-2). You are directed to begin interdiction operations against any and all enemies posing a threat to Earth, its colonies, and its allies._

 _Furthermore, you are granted diplomatic authority to establish treaties with non-human races as required to support your mission._

 _Godspeed Captain,_

 _Adm. Steven Hackett._

Shepard reread the letter again—or rather, she reread the first paragraph.

 _Captain_ Shepard.

She read it again, waiting for the letters to rearrange themselves, for phrases to vanish from the screen.

She felt the sudden irrational urge to laugh and throw the terminal across the room. The Reapers arrived—as she said they would—and now not only was she pardoned, but they wanted to promote her.

What a fouled-up galaxy.

It was also very typical of the galaxy and its sense of irony. She would have traded the new rank for better wartime preparations. She would have traded her omnitool with her arm still attached for some decent preparations. It was ungrateful, but she couldn't see much reason to be grateful.

She was vindicated, but at what cost? That didn't help the burning worlds. It didn't stop the Reaper onslaught. It felt too much like an embarrassed pat on the head. It was all titular, though as the shock wore off she began to see the necessity.

It didn't seem right, as far as the Alliance's command structure went, for a person in her position to be a mere Lieutenant Commander. It was for the paper-pushers, the legalists, the elitists who still sprinkled the galaxy. It was harder to ignore a captain than a commander.

She could appreciate the gesture from the perspective of mission necessity. The conclusion settled her feelings somewhat.

She bit her lip, got to her feet, began restlessly pacing. The promotion made her aware of something she had all but forgotten in the intervening years: her psychological risk factor. She knew, philosophically, that before Eden Prime it would never have dropped below a five, on the scale of ten. That _should_ have meant she never got past the rank of service chief.

What would it be now? Eight? Nine? And they went and made her a captain. How was that for chaos in the galaxy?

Captain Jalissa A. Shepard.

The title fit her very poorly, she felt, after having been 'Commander Shepard' for so long. It was like wearing someone else's clothes.


	68. Acquisition

Shepard sat in the Huerta Memorial cafeteria, her head in her hands, conscious of Thane's silent presence. She was grateful for the silence, crushing weariness beginning to set in on her. She slept, true, but in snatched twenty minute or two hour naps. She knew what it was: she was getting used to going from a sedentary, uneventful existence to a high-stress dangerous lifestyle.

She was like a cold bottle dropped into a hot water bath: depending on the actual temperature of both, the bottle might crack or shatter. She just needed time. She surely wasn't the only one making the shift. It was probably harder on those who had family left somewhere. It would not, she knew, be the first time she was glad her own family was already gone. She didn't have to worry about their safety; she knew exactly where they were; she'd made peace with their deaths.

After dropping Liara off to check on Alenko, she'd come up here. Thane, somehow, had found out she'd come, and joined her not long after. She appreciated the company. Thane was good to have around if one didn't want to be alone with one's thoughts, but didn't want chatter either.

He was comfortable with silence, and silence was comfortable around him.

She sipped her juice, wondering how much of the war surplus Anderson had socked away had been loaded into the Normandy's cargo hold. She'd noted lines of concern ease on Steve Cortez's face when he realized that he would have time to organize their fractured supply lines without that inefficiency cutting into operations.

He was a dedicated one, and Shepard approved, but she knew the single-mindedness that exposed itself every so often. For now, she'd let it be, but if it didn't ease, didn't go away once some kind of 'normalcy' was established shipboard, she'd get involved.

Shepard took another sip of her juice but didn't look at the chrono on her omnitool. Surely Dr. Chakwas would be getting off soon. The idea of asking Dr. Chakwas to come with her, to 'requisition personnel' was tempting. Shepard did not want to enlarge the crew too much, mostly because she didn't trust Cerberus to be unable to send in infiltrators. Best to limit the new people to those she knew, or who had solid backing. The risk still existed, but it was a lessened risk. She could live with that.

She shouldn't feel doubt as to whether Dr. Chakwas would come with her, if asked. Not Dr. Chakwas, who had absented herself from her Alliance posting to chase Collectors on a vessel flying Cerberus colors.

Her firm assertion echoed in Shepard's head: ' _I don't work for_ Cerberus _. I work for_ you _._ 'The conviction in the sentiment still touched Shepard.

And she wouldn't lie: she would much prefer a medic—and the ship absolutely needed one—who was already familiar with her case history. Selfish as it was, she didn't want some new person poking and prodding her.

-J-

"There you are. Hello, Thane, it's good to see you." Dr. Chakwas dropped into one of the seats between Shepard and the drell, unfolding the napkin from around her lunch.

"It's good to see you as well, Doctor," the drell rumbled, turning his attention away from his glassy-eyed contemplation of the tabletop.

"How is he?" Shepard asked nervously.

"Much better. I think he'll pull through. But," she added sternly, "you shouldn't drive yourself crazy over this."

"I think we'll be shipping out soon," Shepard said quietly, her face grim. Her gaze fell to the table, but Dr. Chakwas could tell the news that Alenko was recovering, that she, Dr. Chakwas, felt confident, was a boost to Shepard's morale.

Dr. Chakwas wanted to shake her head: the Mars mission reminded her very much of Eden Prime, only somewhat backwards.

She regarded Shepard for a few moments. The truth was, Alenko actually woke up that morning, which made Liara his first actual visitor. She had suspicions that Liara's visit was not purely concern for Alenko's health. The only reason she had not yet _told_ Shepard that Alenko regained conscious was because Liara had asked her not to. To her own surprise, the asari gave her a reason: there were things Alenko needed to come to grips with, to understand, before it would do any good for Shepard to visit.

Hence why Dr. Chakwas believed Liara's visit to be more than a courtesy call. But she'd prevailed upon Dr. Michel to follow the asari's advice.

She stirred her coffee, took a sip of it and then added sugar from the dispenser on the table. "Shepard, I won't beat around the bush."

Shepard looked up. "Have you ever?" she asked wryly, one corner of her mouth hitching up into a lopsided smile.

"Not with you, no. You turn it into a kind of sport."

Thane chuckled softly at this, nodding his approval.

Shepard made a face, but ignored the amusement. "So?"

"I'm content working in Shalta Ward. But I would drop it in a second if it meant going with you."

Shepard's expression warmed into the first real smile she'd worn in days. "Pack your gear, Doc. I was wondering how to broach the subject."

Dr. Chakwas finished her coffee too quickly, scalding her mouth, but she managed to avoid making a show of it. "I'll gather my things and report to the Normandy immediately."

"We're in D24, now," Shepard declared.

"It's good to be serving with you again, Shepard."

Shepard smiled up at her. "Don't start celebrating too early—Joker's still piloting."

"And I'll be very surprised if he's remembering to take his medication. Don't worry, Shepard. I'll get everything squared away by the time you're ready to hit dirt."

"In the meantime, I'll try not to get shot. You know how it is on the Citadel," Shepard declared blandly.

"You should share that one, if you haven't already. The supposedly safest place in the galaxy and you attracted bullets like you were on Omega."


	69. Proof

"Alenko, I'm glad you're up. Does Shepard know?" Liara asked, seating herself by his feet without invitation, holding the datapad cradled in her lap.

The haze of drugs receded somewhat, now that he had something to actually focus on. "Not yet—haven't been close enough to any tech not wired to me to send her a message." He was not sure if he _should_. Things would be…awkward…at best.

"She would take kindly to hearing from you," Liara said gently. "She's been very worried."

"Yeah?" Not worried, but 'very worried.'

"Of course. You're part of her crew."

 _Not_ a personal concern, a professional one. Alenko wasn't sure if Liara's wording was an intentional jab or not.

"Since you're awake…there's something I need you to look at…but it…it isn't _pleasant._ I don't want to tax you, but—"

Trust Liara to be prepared for anything. "It's fine. What's up?" It was very like her to want to spare her cohorts pain or discomfort. Frankly, anything that would take his mind off blank contemplation to the ceiling would be extremely welcome. Ceilings got boring _exceptionally_ fast.

The datapad contained a film file. It took a minute or two of watching of them before he realized he was looking at what had to be a butcher's block, meat piled up. His toes began to tingle uncomfortably as the time-lapsed images progressed: tubes were added. Then wires presumably running to machines. It was in that moment that he realized the lump of meat was not destined for the dinner table. The further he went, the more he realized that this was a series of life-saving surgeries…but so extensive! The process was invasive, in many shots there was obvious muscular bruising…then the cameras panned back, began to take in more of the mass on the table.

The patient had no skin. The flesh was completely stripped from the musculature, musculature soon packed with what looked like orange gel pellets, held together with biodegradable medical mesh. The images were all in color, vivid and somehow real as life. "What…is this…?" By now he felt queasy, a mix of graphic suffering and personal dread.

Liara wouldn't show things like this for no reason.

"Finish." Her expression was hard, but hard out of worry, as though she was trying to mentally communicate something to him, something he had to understand before she had to leave.

Grudgingly, Alenko continued. Tendons continued to appear, ligaments, pads of some gelatinous material was…used to fill out breasts and hips. The images focused on a face: teeth were implanted, features began to be discernible, but there was still no skin. Eyes came next…

…and he shut off the footage. He knew those eyes, couldn't mistake them. "Liara, what _is_ this?" He wanted to throw the datapad away, but his hand wouldn't obey, wouldn't cast the gruesome chronicle away from him.

"It was called Project Lazarus. And you have to understand it. Finish it—you're getting towards the end."

Alenko mechanically obeyed. A sort of mesh was laid over the face—then the rest of the body. Several successive clips showed that her skin was _growing_ , spreading along the mesh like a plant creeping on a trellis. They had had to reconstruct her facial features, repeated surgeries, implanted hair which had then filled out, spreading like wild grass. He suspected quite a few details were omitted from this data packet, but he didn't mind: what was here was enough.

The film stopped, freezing on an image of Jalissa Shepard's head, face intact, lips parted as though drugged out of her mind, eyes barely open, revealing a very thin strip of cornea and those vivid irises.

"Two years, Kaidan," Liara said gently. "The reality was far more brutal than it looks here."

"What…" he stared at the datapad. If this footage was real, it confirmed Shepard's story about being _dead_.

"If I tell you, I need you to believe me. And you can't ever, _ever_ tell her about this visit. She wouldn't have wanted you to see this." There were some things one could not un-see.

Alenko looked up, nodded once, aware that the drugs in his system were probably keeping him from freaking out entirely. He couldn't make up reasons why a thing couldn't be, couldn't have happened anymore. Not like this, and Liara would not go to such extravagances to lie on Shepard's behalf. "What happened to her?"

"She died, Kaidan. Suffocated before entering the atmosphere over Alchera. She was a charred wreck—I could have carried her easily without my biotics. But they…Cerberus…got hold of her remains, and they rebuilt her, as close to the original as possible. And somehow…she came back. From day one, there hasn't been a single blink of deviation from everything Shepard was. It is Shepard, Kaidan. Just as she's always been."

Alenko sat back. Except for the lack of scars on her face, the tiny one that had given her a constant quirk of the mouth, Shepard was visually indistinguishable from his memories of her. "Why?"

"Because someone had to fight the Collectors, and she was deemed the most likely to succeed. Believe me, it wasn't out of the goodness of his heart that the Illusive Man funded this project."

"Why'd you bring all this here?" Alenko looked away from Shepard's drugged expression.

"Because she's not Cerberus—never has been, never will be. She worked with them, that's all, was happy to spend their money—but it was to fight the Reapers. It's always been about the Reapers. If there is one thing Shepard needs, it's to know that you believe her."

Alenko didn't know what to say as Liara wearily reclaimed the datapad, taking the grotesque contents away so he couldn't obsess over them.

She didn't seem to take his lack of immediate answer as an answer in itself, for which he was grateful. "You know, visiting you would be very good for her morale. She's got a lot on her plate just now. And…she misses you."

-J-

Author's note: Uhhh… the next vignette's title? Don't let it put you off. It's not what you're thinking.


	70. Self Insert

Diana Allers of the Alliance News Network was a _good_ reporter. It wasn't personal opinion: it was a fact.

So, when word of the Reaper invasion got out, she knew where _Battlespace_ was going to go. The question was how to get there.

She would be the first to admit that she was a skeptic. Giant mechanized aliens? But a skeptic wasn't the same thing as a naysayer. In her lifetime humanity had discovered they weren't alone in the galaxy. Mechanized aliens? Far-fetched, but not impossible. She'd been content to let the tabloids have it until there was something a little more concrete.

Now, though, there was concrete, durasteel, and plastiglass proof. More than anyone needed to say 'oh, yes, _those_ mechanized aliens.'

Stuck on the Citadel, away from the chaos, was no place for someone like her to be. Forget what her producers wanted—though, she admitted, she and they generally wanted the same things—she would have _insisted_ on finding a warship to attach herself to.

She was well aware that the military had a longstanding distrust of reporters, but reporters often had longstanding weariness of dealing with the military. It was a mutually fueled animosity, she felt, with enough truth on both sides to keep it going.

PR was not necessarily her primary concern, but she could guarantee that the crew on whatever ship she attached herself to would have little to fear from her microphone and camera. Well, maybe the fear of white spots on their vision from the lights, but really, that would go away.

When word got out that the SSV Normandy, the notorious Normandy with her famous (or infamous) commanding officer pulled into the Citadel's docking bay, she knew where she had to go and what she had to do.

Find one of Shepard's crewmen and hassle them until Shepard herself showed up. Because that was what Shepard _did_. She kept the nasty press from badgering her crew. It wasn't hard to stake out the Normandy, camera-bot in tow, and wait for someone to come off it.

In this case, an Ensign Copeland, who was young enough to find himself up against a wall and doing his damnedest not to say _anything_ that might give her a foothold.

No, he couldn't help her.

He wasn't talking to the press without consulting his CO.

No, he couldn't confirm who his CO was. He didn't _care_ what her security clearance was—and his CO wouldn't either. No, he couldn't confirm or deny _anything_ about Earth. He could not comment on his mission, his crewmates or anything else—it was classified!

Could she please go away? The lights were giving him a headache.

"What's going on here?" an imperative female voice demanded.

Allers wanted to smile, but didn't. She turned around to find Commander Shepard frowning at her, bright eyes narrowed in suspicion. Her eyes followed Copeland's expeditious retreat before snapping back to Allers.

"Commander, just who I was looking for. I'm Diana Allers, Alliance News Network. I think we can help each other."

Shepard's expression remained stonily neutral as she crossed her arms.

Allers hadn't expected a friendly reception. She considered herself lucky that the Commander was giving her overbearing silence instead of a decisive 'not interested.' "I'm a military reporter with a show called _Battlespace_. We're carried on just about all Council planets. My producers want me embedded on a human ship—" Allers almost smiled as Shepard's expression became fixed, utterly impassive as opposed to stonily neutral, "—and I want that ship to be the Normandy."

"Why would I want that?"

It was better than a 'no' and hinted that, as distasteful as she found the prospect, Shepard wasn't a fool. She saw, or guessed, that a reporter might be useful.

Might.

As a long shot.

Well, Allers could fix _that_ impression. "Because wars can be won—or lost—in the editing room. And this war needs to be won. I've got Alliance security clearance and I operate without a crew."

"I trust you wouldn't mind me validating your Alliance clearance?"

"Hell, Commander, I'll give you veto power over any segment I file."

Shepard's eyebrows arched. Clearly that was not an answer she expected.

"I'll be up front. I don't like the press; I don't think you belong on a warship or embedded with _any_ military unit. However, I recognize the necessity." Shepard frowned, then sighed. " _If_ your Alliance clearance checks out, you can tell your producers yes—for now. Let me be clear: if you make my crew look bad for the sake of a story, or because of a personal agenda, if you _endanger_ them, I have an airlock, and I will use it."

Allers chuckled at this, unruffled by Shepard's stark declaration. She didn't doubt Shepard's word, but she doubted the necessity of acquaintance with the airlock. "I don't think that's going to be a problem," Allers answered. "Anything else?"

Shepard thought for a moment. "Veto power on the articles _and_ any broadcast you plan to send. Just in case anything slips in that shouldn't."

The last bit did not smack of suspicion, but prudence. Sometimes things slipped the net, things that shouldn't get out, sometimes did. The fact that Shepard didn't sound as though she expected the worst was a step in the right direction. "I can do that, too."

Shepard nodded. "I'll make it clear to my crew that you're here as an asset. One more thing: we're a military vessel, so have the goodness to dress accordingly. If you want to wear that," Shepard gestured with one finger, "you'd better not be out and about."

"I can handle that."

"Good. Questions?"

"Just one: how much stuff can I bring?"

"One ditty pack, one duffel bag, one footlocker. I'll have the check run immediately; hopefully things will be settled before you're finished packing."

Allers smiled and saluted. "You won't regret this, Commander."

Shepard's smile was not reassuring, but Allers did not consider herself an easily squelched person.


	71. Awkward

Shepard stepped into the cab that would take her to the turian Councilor's office. She wasn't sure what he wanted, but with Palaven recently attacked by the Reapers, she suspected he'd come around to her way of thinking. EDI had been briefing her as communiques got out, and the situation was ugly.

"EDI," Shepard contacted the Normandy, "would you run a background check on one Diana Allers. She's a reporter with the ANN."

" _Is there anything I should be looking for?_ " EDI asked.

"Find her security clearance and make sure it's genuine. Find out what her cant for reporting is."

" _Are we expecting her as a crewman?_ "

"As an attachment," Shepard answered grimly. She knew that, if she accepted Allers aboard the _Normandy_ , she would have to stow her dislike for the press—a dislike she knew was powerfully influenced by that al-Jilani woman.

" _I see. Her security clearance is genuine. I am forwarding my findings to you, including trends in her reporting. I take it you have concerns?"_

"I do. But she's right: we may need to get words out. And I'd rather have it canted our way than not…" Shepard trailed off. Allers had not given her the same impressions as that al-Jilani woman, but she remained leery. What was more, she knew her crew would be leery, too.

She forced herself to think neutrally as she scanned the data EDI had forwarded. Allers' security clearance was in order, enough that Shepard would feel mildly comfortable having her aboard. She could not call Allers 'pro-military' but she was certainly not _anti_ -military.

Of course, with the Reapers finally here, Shepard suspected even anti-military reporters might be changing their tunes.

Forcing herself to think neutrally took effort, but she managed, and in replaying her conversation with Allers she came to several conclusions: the woman was intelligent, thick-skinned, and willing to endure the negative attitudes she was sure to garner. She'd pushed, but not elbowed. She'd come across as being every bit as up-front as Shepard herself—though Shepard admitted she, personally, could have been a little less overbearing.

She was a soldier, not a saint, she thought grimly. Allers had taken it in stride though, and the offer of full veto power on the segments had Shepard's attention. EDI could keep a discreet eye on things, just in case. If Allers panned out, if she became what Shepard considered trustworthy, she could always loosen the restrictions. Better to start out with a short leash than get burned for being too trusting.

And that outfit had to go.

"EDI, can you get me Allers' contact information? And let Liara know that she may need to field our new addition?"

" _Of course. Done._ " Then, after a pause. " _I have conveyed the situation to Dr. T'Soni. She says she will handle it, as long as you tell Allers that the XO's quarters are a journalist-free zone._ "

"I'll do that." Shepard punched Allers' information in, waited for the reporter to answer.

" _Hello Commander. I take it I checked out?_ " Allers asked cheerfully.

From what Shepard could see of her, the woman had already changed her top to something a little more appropriate for a warship resident. "You did. Report to Bay D24. I'll advise my shipmates that you're coming. If I'm not there you can speak to my second, Dr. T'Soni. She's been instructed to get you settled."

" _Aye-aye, Commander. Hey_ ," she added, a little less cheerfully and a little more earnestly, " _you won't regret this._ "

Shepard found one corner of her mouth trying to curl. "If I seriously thought I would, you'd still be looking for a posting. See you later, Allers." With that, she hung up, wondering if she'd been too brusque and determining to work on talking to Allers like a person and not 'a journalist.'

Shepard leaned back in her seat, frowning out the window. She still had nerves about the reporter, but she'd told the truth: if she had serious doubts, she would have said 'no.' She wished she could shake the paranoia, but she couldn't, so she changed the train of her thoughts to deciding how to break it to her crew that they'd be hosting a reporter.

She wouldn't expect acceptance of the newcomer, but she felt sure she could depend on professional cordiality. She might not even have to ask for it…but she would, just in case. And make sure it was understood that if Allers crossed any reasonably-placed line, she would make sure the issue was addressed.

Fairly, she added to herself, that the issue was addressed _fairly_. To Allers as well as to anyone else.

Shepard pinched the bridge of her nose. Her crew were mostly techs and desk jockeys suddenly propelled into frontline active duty; maybe they wouldn't have the same suspicions she entertained. Hell, some of them might be fans or admirers. She'd have to sound them out.

She returned to her omnitool, browsed several of Allers' more well-known articles, one or two of which she'd read or half-listened to. What she found was encouraging. Yes, Allers asked awkward questions, but never giving the impression of being 'out to get' anyone. Awkward questions did not bother Shepard—sometimes they needed to be asked. Sometimes they needed to be answered.

Her experience with the Bahak system made her keenly aware of this, had even tempered her views of what the press could consider part of their purview, expanded her perception of 'just because you _can_ doesn't mean you _should_ ' when it came to arguments about 'the power of the press.' Some, maybe even many, awkward questions deserved answers.

She swallowed hard, took a deep, calming breath. She was about to go into the bullring with the turian Councilor—she'd come to expect a fight whenever she saw a member of the Council. She needed to focus. She needed to be calm, not lose her temper again. She needed to avoid sounding as though she were raving.

Today was turning into an awkward day.


	72. Much Obliged

"Thank you for responding so promptly, Commander," were the turian councilor's first words as Shepard entered his office.

The first thing she noticed was that it was warmer and that the air was dryer, than most places she'd visited on the Citadel. It might even become stifling after a while. On a shelf behind his desk was a triangular shallow dish, filled with black rocks on a bed of sand, all arranged around a spherical candle of an avocado-dip green. The furniture here was all designed to be comfortable by turian standards, the perch-like articles reinforcing the impression of being more birdlike than lizardy.

She didn't understand the one painting in the room, a vertical piece of white canvas—or similar—in a kind of 'modern' way: lots of swoops and swirls of color, the different lines and articulations rendered in differing thicknesses of paint, some as thin as paper, others almost a centimeter thick. It made her a bit dizzy to look at it, the urge to turn her head to see it at a changing angle being so strong.

"It's by Asinius—he started the movement of the turian warrior/artist," the councilor remarked, as if Shepard had voiced more than casual interest.

Well, it had caught her attention. She wasn't sure she _liked_ it, but she was fairly certain she didn't _dis_ like it. "It's my first exposure to two-dimensional turian art. What can I do for you, Councilor?"

"What I have in mind is more 'you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours.' Without the understandably ominous undertones," he added, regarding his talons thoughtfully.

"I'll bear that in mind."

He motioned her to sit down, if she liked, but Shepard shook her head. She wasn't sure about some of the furniture, so it seemed safer, to her, to just stand. "I'll come quickly to the point: I can't give you what you want, not with regards to troops or supplies. But I _can_ give you a way to get what you want."

"Oh?" The feeling she'd had that, for once, she and the turian representative were on the same communications band—never mind that this was a different councilor than she'd initially met—now seemed a confirmed fact. She wondered if it had to do with reminding him that he, too, was once a soldier.

He'd either forgotten that in the 'glory' of his position or been made to forget by years of politics. She suspected that politics would wear down any soldier, and the track that led to the Citadel seemed more prone to this adjusting of views than most. It was like some drug addictions: you didn't really realize you had a problem until you were in too deep…if you ever did.

"This is Primarch Fedorian. He's the one who would attend the summit that's being planned." The councilor handed Shepard the holo.

"'Would attend'?"

"Indeed. He's trapped on Palaven, fighting the Reapers. More accurately, he's on Menae."

And the Normandy, being a top-of-the-line stealth ship, could get in and get out with a better chance of remaining undetected than any other ship the councilor could think of. "What's Menae?"

The councilor answered very clearly, but without malice or overbearing authority, "A longstanding Hierarchy secret. So I am asking you to be discreet and see that your team also remains so." Shepard nodded. "Menae is Palaven's largest moon. This is General Corinthus, the man you'll need to find," the councilor handed over another holo.

Shepard realized, at this point, that he did not want her to address one of the men she was looking for without realizing who he was. It was a way to keep her from losing face, since most species held that members of their own species were distinct while members of other species all looked alike. It was quite the courtesy, and she promised herself to spend the entire trip to Palaven—or, at least, some of it—making sure she could recognize them on sight. Lucky for her, their colony markings were different.

Which made her wonder if Palaven, being the turian homeworld, didn't have regional markings.

"He'll know where Fedorian is, and anyone in Menae's command structure will be able to contact him or see that you get to him in person. If Fedorian is dead, General Corinthus will know or find out who's next."

Shepard had never appreciated the rigid orderliness of the Turian Hierarchy. They had a chain of leadership mapped out practically to the last member of the species. The only question of 'who' was 'who's dead and who isn't?' "Can you tell me anything about the Primarch?"

The turian councilor snickered softly. "He's your kind of people: open to extreme solutions." But his tone implied that he understood very well that 'extreme solutions' was political-speak out of habit. He, too, could see the necessities but could not quite shake the sentiment-softening phraseology. He wasn't thinking like a soldier, not yet, but he seemed to be making an effort. "He's not overly fond of humans, but he's a bottom-line kind of man: he sees what's happening. Be up front; speak compellingly."

There was a lot of room to maneuver in a word like 'compellingly.' She wondered if this would be like the discussion she'd had with Executor Pallin during her early days on the Citadel.

'Fight for everything you get, but don't expect the rest of the galaxy to sit back and let you take it.' It translated to 'do your damnedest, but realize that we'll do ours.'

It was a good philosophy for the current situation. "So rescue his ass in hopes he considers the big picture."

"I'm glad to see you think like a Spectre even with your homeworld burning. Unlike your ambassador."

Shepard refrained from pointing out that Udina was a slug, always had been, always would be. The degree of slug-ness simply varied given the circumstances. "We'll be discreet."

The councilor nodded, which Shepard took as permission to leave, unless she had further questions.


	73. Revisited

_She knew these trees. She knew the clouds overhead. She knew the dim ambient light that played havoc with her eyes, turned shadows into pits and small noises into monsters._

 _She knew it all…but she couldn't be here._

 _But she was._

 _She turned sharply, looking around her, her breath coming fast, her skin prickling with gooseflesh as a chill breeze ran over it._

 _Something crackled and she turned, unsure of what to expect. Monsters lived here. Marines lived here, too. Memory lived here. Here, among the skeletal branches overhead and the scrubby shrubs underfoot._

 _She began to walk, aware of the feeling all sapients had when alone in the dark, in the wilderness: the feeling of being watched, of having movements followed by the unfriendly eyes of feral hunting creatures._

 _She heard the crack again, turned around, expecting to see something with teeth._

 _Standing some ten feet back was the boy. The little boy from Earth. The one she'd failed to save. The one whose shuttle she'd watched carved in two by a Reaper laser. His pale hoodie seemed to shine in the darkness. He looked as if he'd just noticed her, was as surprised to see her as she was to see him._

 _Suddenly, his gaze shot past her shoulder, he began to shake. Red light flooded over them both from behind Shepard. She didn't turn: she knew what was there. The light came with a sound that, at this range, was more like a feeling than something her eardrums remembered. It was like that with Sovereign, it was like that with all the Reapers on Earth: a loud harmonic that seemed to rattle bones, to shiver soft tissues._

 _The boy dropped the ship, the little toy slipping from increasingly limp fingers. He turned and ran, not looking back, his chokes and sobs of terror echoing weirdly in the Mindoiran woods._

 _She moved forward, her motions horribly hampered, slowing long enough to pick up the little model ship. Her ship._

 _Her heartbeat sped up as she followed the boy's progress. Unlike her, his movement did not seem impeded. He easily outdistanced her, then blinked out._

 _She knew, in her guts, that he was still here, somewhere, but fear began to gnaw at her. Fear that if she lost track of him she would never find him again, that to lose him again would be…catastrophic. She turned sharply, catching a faint hiss of sound. Turning again, she caught sign of a white patch disappearing behind a tree. She wanted to call out to him, to tell him she was a friend, that she could save him, but her mouth, her tongue, the muscles in her jaws, all of them refused to work, leaving her mute as well as impeded._

 _It was like fighting through water or thick mud. Each movement required force of effort, each step required supreme will._

 _Terror made people irrational, and she felt terror creeping up on her. She'd dreamed like this, running impeded, unable to scream or cry out for help—through these same woods before. Long ago. When the pain and the fear were still fresh._

 _Now the fear was different. The woods were the same, but the fear was different._

 _She found the boy, realized that she was beginning to gain on him. She looked down, found that she looked quite like herself, armored—though not armed—sporting the insignias and markings of the N7 that she was._

 _As the boy stopped running, as she slowed, she realized that ash had begun to fall. Or was it ash? She looked up. Maybe it was paper? Maybe it was both. She didn't have time to think about it. Ash had fallen over these woods before. Or maybe it had seemed that way at the time._

 _She knew these woods. She couldn't be here…but she was._

 _She reached the boy, reached out for him, ready to guide him to safety, just as the marines of long ago had guided her to safety._

 _The boy looked up at her with big, soulful eyes, his lips pressed together._

 _She felt herself slowing, stopping, until she simply stood there, looking down at him._

 _He gazed up at her, then slowly, blossoming from nowhere, flames emerged, seemingly from beneath him, from within him, from around him, all at once, the greedy yellow fingers licking their way up him even as he stared fixedly at her._

 _Was it accusation? Silent appeal? Whatever it was, it couldn't be answered. Not by her. Never by her._

-J-

Shepard awoke with a strangled cry to find herself in her own quarters aboard the Normandy. She was drenched in sweat, shaky, her breathing erratic to the point that she found herself coughing, choking on her own sucked-back saliva. She tried to slow her breathing and succeeded.

She pushed the blankets aside, headed dazedly for her bathroom, where she proceeded to douse not only her face, but her hair as well, groping for a towel as the horribly cold water shocked her back to full wakefulness.

She hadn't dreamed about Mindoir in years, hadn't dreamed of the helplessness, the fear, the darkness…none of it. She couldn't remember exactly when it stopped, but it had. And she'd been grateful.

This dream had been different, it was true, but it was still the same.

And she didn't belong there anymore.

She swallowed, toweling her hair vigorously before dragging a brush through it. If there was one thing to be said for short hair, it was that wash and wear was admirably suited to the life she led.

The levity didn't last, and she shivered, aware of the sweat making her clothes stick to her body. With a growl, she turned on the shower, the barriers that kept the spray from soaking everything jumping up. Peeling her clothes off, she peered once into the mirror, frowned at herself. "You don't belong there." She said in a low, tense voice. "Not anymore."

She hoped will was enough to make it true.


	74. Peace

"Or maybe I'm just willing to do what—"

Shepard grabbed Vega by the arm with a speed he hadn't expected. In a blinding moment he realized that she had spent the past five minutes figuring him, rolling him between her hands like a genius with a rubix cube. And now, it seemed, she had what she needed.

Then he hit the floor with a heavy thud, winced as Shepard kicked him belly-down, twisted his arm the wrong way and put her heel right in the groove where skull and neck joined. She didn't push hard, but she didn't have to. He expected a stricture on letting anger cloud one's thinking, but that was not what he got.

"Maybe you don't care whether you live or die. But if you're _half_ as good as I think you are we need you _alive_ ," she growled as she removed her boot, let his arm go, and stepped back, plainly ready for a retaliatory swipe.

Vega got to his feet, resisting the urge to rub his neck. She hadn't pulled punches when she put him on the ground, and he knew he'd feel the dig of her boot for some time yet. "So what? You going to tell me I made the right choice?" The challenge jumped to his mouth reflexively, wondering exactly how much of a grip on the situation Shepard held. He didn't feel like a puppet, precisely; more like a marble that had finally rolled into a prepared track and now would follow in the course indicated. Even that wasn't quite accurate, since he didn't feel _manipulated._

Shepard met his gaze, but there was no reassurance in those vivid eyes.

A cold sensation filled his stomach: whatever she was about to say was true, but not exactly comforting. It was something that could be learned only by experience, and therefore would be 'wrong' or 'impossible' to a lot of people. But it came with the best intentions, like breaking a bone that had healed wrong so it could heal correctly. It was an overused comparison, but it felt like the right one.

"People say things like 'I made the right choice' or 'I did my best' because they think it will help them sleep at night. So tell me, James, does it work?"

Vega considered, surprised that she'd addressed him by his first names. Shepard wasn't big on first names. Finally, after considering the matter in depth, he shook his head. He'd harbored the suspicion that, no matter what he'd done, he'd have ended up damned by his choice anyway. It was not a thought he'd shared with anyone.

"That's because there _was_ no right choice," Shepard continued steadily. Repeated experience with this sort of scenario seemed to stack up like after action reports for a busy week. "Would you be feeling like this if you'd saved the colonists?"

"Hell no!" came the snapped answer. But, came the insidious whisper, what if her team _had_ failed? The odds had been stacked so heavily against them…and Chance was a real bitch.

Yes, he'd have been sure—between saving the colonists and getting the news that Shepard had successfully defeated the Collectors—that he'd made the wrong choice. He couldn't imagine if he'd have been relieved to hear everything had worked out all right or not…because things hadn't.

And he couldn't change that.

If he _had_ saved the colonists and she _hadn't_ succeeded…he'd be cursing himself anyway. More than that…he wasn't sure he could have looked any of them in the eye, ever again, without the knowledge that their lives were going to be cut short anyway. Had Shepard failed and he acted on what was in his heart rather than what was in his head, would have bought them a little time…but nothing more.

An odd sensation of something unknotting made his skin prickle. It wasn't relief, it wasn't 'feeling better', it wasn't even comforting. But it was a kind of…peace. The kind of peace that 'you did your best' had never imparted. It was 'you were wrong', but with the understanding that sometimes 'wrong' was the only way to be. There wasn't always a good choice…and it was good to hear that this was the case.

And, he realized, she was not addressing him as Commander Shepard with that long lists of achievements and lauds. She was speaking as someone he could trust to give him good advice, accurate information, to share the unpleasant truths with the full knowledge of what those truths could do, both good and bad.

And he finally understood how Shepard could get people lining up to go with her into the darkest, ugliest places in the galaxy. It wasn't because she was a hero. It wasn't even because she was a good soldier.

It was intangible, but one of the most concrete things he'd ever come across.

"The sooner you accept that there was no right choice, the better off you'll be," Shepard continued levelly. "You won't _feel_ better…but you can learn to stop torturing yourself more quickly. And _that_ will help you sleep at night."

It was a cold, brutal kind of truth, the sort of thing that only someone who had _been there_ , in that kind of no-win situation, could share.

It was a cold, brutal kind of truth that only someone who had been there, in that kind of no-win situation could accept and appreciate.

Vega nodded; it would take time to really chew this unusual viewpoint and this new insight over, but he could already feel it taking effect. It was like a shot in the arm, but of what he couldn't say. It helped, though. "Thanks for the pep talk, Lola."

"Lola, huh?" Warmth and normalcy crept back into Shepard's tone.

Vega shrugged. "You look like a 'Lola'."

Shepard's mouth twisted into a grin that was more like a grimace. "You're cute, _Tank_ , so I'll let you get away with it. For now."

"See? There you go. Made me blush."


	75. Service Before Self

Tali'Zorah vas Normandy looked at herself in the small mirror. She had absolutely and point-blank refused to let the Admirals change her ship name back to vas Neema, even though they were willing to do so. There was too much pride attached to being known as part of the Normandy. That and it was a constant reminded to others that the Admirals could be assholes like anyone else—more so if one considered the scale of that trait they could achieve.

She took a slow breath, studying her features critically. Large, slanting eyes—dramatically slanting, compared to the humans she spent so much time around—a nose that was almost imperceptible, a bump with two slit nostrils, a small mouth, and decent cheekbones. She could say critically that she was no beauty by her own standards (and not enough of one for certain members of another dextro species to notice on those few occasions he saw her without her helmet).

However, the traces of childhood's softness were long gone, and she noticed she squinted more than she used to. Not because she needed help seeing, but because it was the first stage of scowling at someone or something, or of concentration. She had the feeling she was going to spend a lot more time squinting.

The question was whether or not she would accept the burden that would lead to said squinting. She could still say no.

The day before, the Admirals had convened in a private meeting. More than half a year after Rael'Zorah's death—the thought still gave her a painful pang of the heart—and they still hadn't replaced him. Too much argument and contention. She hadn't realized just how complicated finding a new Admiral was until she found herself privy to the fringes of the process.

She made a mental note, in case needing a new Admiral ever came up. Their track record with her was not fabulous, and the Reapers were here. It had been quite a shock when the announcement went out that Earth and (three days ago) Palaven had come under attack.

It made sense—humans and turians were the ones whose responses an invasion needed to derail as quickly as possible—but hearing about Palaven was like a kick to the guts. Somehow, she couldn't imagine Shepard _not_ getting off Earth and getting down to the business she'd known was coming for years. Somehow…she didn't feel so sure of Garrus. She'd have killed—or been genuinely polite to the Admiralty Board for a week or so—if she could have one little proof that he was alright. Something. _Anything._

Which was why she was thinking so hard about squinting, Admirals (beyond the grim sense of their having failed in their duties every time she saw them—she was still only cordial with Raan, having stopped calling her 'Auntie'), and her own looks.

They wanted her. They wanted her to serve on the Admiralty Board. She hadn't been sure what to think about that, so she'd asked for a shipboard day to think it over before answering. Gerrel hadn't approved, thinking the offer was a no-brainer. Raan and Koris had agreed that kind of caution was a good sign…with sidelong looks at Gerrel suggesting _someone_ should take note.

She smirked at that.

But could she really work with them? She _still_ had to squish surges of discontent over their antics. Could she really get up every morning knowing she couldn't get away from them, would have to talk to them and agree with them on a topic she agreed with? Some of Garrus ornery nature, exposed in fits and starts, seemed to have rubbed off on her.

She frowned into the mirror again, considering one of the reasons cited for her appointment. She'd been out in the larger galaxy, so her experience outside the Flotilla was significant. She'd had more contact with the geth than any other quarian and lived to tell about it. She was an exemplar of the quarian people.

Pretty much everything Shepard had rammed down their throats during a fit of defensive pique. Having them regurgitate Shepard's words had gone a long way to her not telling them to go space themselves. It took an act of will to put aside pride enough in such a case.

She did wonder where Shepard was. There was no news of her death, at least, and she felt certain the Reapers would be utterly thrilled to broadcast the fact that the foremost defender against their assault was dead. It would be demoralizing to everyone else.

Well, wherever she was it wasn't here and wherever she was Tali felt certain she would approach the Flotilla at some point. She'd said as much during that stupid trial. The quarians had the biggest fleet in the galaxy and, while a moving target was hard to hit, they couldn't stay out of the fight forever. Better to get in early than be remembered as the latecomers.

And she had no faith in the Admiralty Board not wanting to do something stupid…like hoping a moving target would be too hard for the Reapers to hit.

Tali snorted. Humans and turians were fighters and the Reapers were wiping the floor with them—though by all accounts both homeworlds were putting up the kind of fight one could expect. There was no way, not one, that the Reapers would leave the Flotilla alone just because everyone else did.

She didn't feel ready…but Shepard had never been ready, either. And if her faith in the Admiralty Board's ability not to make stupid choices was so singularly low…well. The only way to do anything about the worst of it would be for her to be there.

Shepard would do it. Wincingly, uneasily…but she'd do it. She'd do it because others, people with no chance to have a say, might suffer if she didn't.

Well, there it was. If she said 'no' she wouldn't even be entitled to bitch about bad decisions.

-J-

Author's Note: As a point of interest, if you have the Mass Effect Universe art book (the one that covers ME3), then the model I use for Tali and the other quarians is on page 28, second row, third from the left.


	76. Welcome

The operations base, at first glance, looked like a ramshackle affair. Closer inspection indicated this was for the benefit of an approaching onlooker: it was an island of fortification in the rocky, torn-up terrain of Menae. The moon struck Shepard as a harsh place even without Reaper bombardment, and she couldn't suppress the thought that it _would_ be the turians who could keep the Reapers at bay (relative to the other species, of course).

' _You only see a turian's back once he's dead_.' The maxim never really came home to her before now. Then again, she'd never seen the turians on full alert or in the middle of repelling hostile action.

The activity within the camp made her shake her head: she'd only see this kind of orderly conduct, with regards to her own military, during peacetime exercises. However, even with Palaven burning above them—perhaps _because_ Palaven was burning above them—the turians went about their duties with a sort of easy efficiency, as if they were used to this sort of thing.

It was all reliance on training—a core component of self that didn't change—in a situation no one could have prepared them for, in the face of an enemy, an assault, that was too much to calculate. So, to save one's sanity and one's ability to function, one fell back on whatever training one had.

The fact that there were so few turians present worried her, but what could she expect? The Reapers caught everyone flat-footed.

"We validated your credentials when you requested put-down," the turian announced. "What can we do for you, Spectre?"

Efficient and polite. That was some damn fine training. She couldn't help but wonder what kind of 'boot camp' turians went through if _this_ was what they became when training was the only thing they could rely on. There wasn't an amped-up nervous bundle of danger to the team anywhere she could see.

"I'm looking for your OIC," Shepard answered, glancing at the turian's armor for a nameplate. Knowing where to look, she found it easily…but couldn't read the turian script. Too bad she couldn't tell what rank he was: it would have been nice to have something to call him.

"Of course you are, but I asked your business," he responded simply.

She did not want to spread around, too far, that she was taking one of their number, possibly a needed leader, away from the fighting here. Memory of how loath she was to leave Earth, even though she knew there was little else she could do without leaving, waited patiently on standby in her mind. She didn't doubt the Primarch wouldn't want to leave, either. "Why don't you just come along and find out?"

The turian rumbled a chuckle. "Spectre-speak for 'mind your own damn business.' Very well." His tone suggested he hadn't _really_ expected an answer, but he might as well try for one.

"Can't blame you for trying," Shepard responded evenly, and she meant it.

She glanced up at Palaven, unable to repress the grim hope that, wherever Garrus was, he wasn't _there_. She really needed him to be _here_.

At first she thought the guide was taking her to one of the half-shelters, but discovered that this was only partially the case.

"She's clear," the turian guide announced to a cluster of his cohorts gathered around a terrain map of the area glittering with yellow and green dots. Friends and enemies.

One of the turians turned around, fiddled with a panel on the wall, which hissed as it unsealed and opened like a sliding door, revealing a short tunnel and a reinforced barrier, not unlike the one through which Shepard and her party had come. At another fiddle from the turian by the wall this barrier, too, dropped.

Shepard stuck out an arm when she heard Vega take a half step forward.

"Three coming down," the door guard announced. Someone must have answered him for he signed off briskly after a moment, turning his attention to Shepard. "Head on in. They'll open the door once you've gone through d-con. Helmets off so they can see you, Spectre."

"Your house, your rules." Shepard immediately took her helmet off, aware of the thinner air within two breaths, the smells of scorched stone, and several indefinable scents that were not overheated, nervous turian—though 'nervous turian' was certainly there.

Liara and Vega followed suit before the trio descended into the space between the two doors. The turians topside sealed the outer door, d-con occurred in complete darkness, then the secondary door opened, revealing a staircase that grew progressively brighter the further one went, its edges delineated by evenly spaced emergency lights at ankle-height.

As they descended, noise rose to greet them. At the bottom of the stairwell, poised for trouble, was an older turian wearing a crimson hood and cowl (which pooled in the neck of his armor) that seemed to be an identifier of some importance. "Commander Shepard," the turian nodded, his bright grey eyes flicking from face to face. She had the impression he was much older than most of the turians of her acquaintance, it was something in the appearance of his facial plates, something she could only describe as 'a grizzled quality.'

"Your comrades?" He studied Vega with a kind of mild interest.

"Dr. Liara T'Soni and Lt. James Vega," Shepard answered slowly.

"Ah." The interest vanished instantly. There was no disappointment, just a disappearance of interest. "I'd welcome you to Menae, but I'm not used do doing it."

No, Menae wasn't used to visitors.

She didn't like the implications of a turian looking for a male human known to travel in her company. In fact, it gave her a deep sense of unease. "Who were you hoping for?"

"Someone else." With that neutral declaration, as if it didn't matter whatsoever since the expected individual was not present, the turian sealed a tertiary door. "This way, please." He took off at a brisk walk.


	77. Discreet

The sparse number of turians topside made sense as the turian in the red hood led them onward. Most of the turians topside were defending the nerve center, the network of passages and rooms underground. Here were the features of a bunker ready to weather a siege: crates of supplies, a fully-functional medbay, and two barracks full of restless trying-to-doze soldiers. She wouldn't be surprised to find a garage, somewhere, full of heavy ground vehicles and shuttles.

Her careful observations announced two facts: the turians could probably collapse any one of these tunnels at any junction to stop an incursion without disturbing the rest of the bunker, and whatever Menae was, someone expected who trouble, sooner or later, designed it.

It was reassuring.

A siren blared once, a sharp, imperative sound.

"Stand against the wall." The turian himself backed up. Within seconds of obedience to the request—for it sounded like a polite request—a unit of eight turians came trotting down the hallway, each armed to the teeth but conducting themselves as if this was merely a drill.

"I have to say, I never really appreciated the turian military at its proper value." Shepard didn't mind admitting it. She certainly hadn't underestimated them, but she hadn't truly _appreciated_ them.

The turian guide chuckled grimly. "You were never supposed to. Though, the Hierarchy says that the past should carry its lesson…but be 'past' nevertheless. How is it you humans say it?"

"Let bygones be bygones."

"Quite so."

From this, she derived that he had certainly been an active part of the First Contact War, and had just expressed a lack of ambivalence towards the humans. Why? Somehow, it seemed important. The answer 'because the Hierarchy said so' didn't seem reason enough for him to reinforce the fact. He was subtle, this turian, but whatever he was angling for was merely a passing interest, a 'because she was in the neighborhood' kind of thing.

She felt safe in assuming he wanted Alenko. If most turians looked alike to humans, most dark-haired, beefy males looked alike to a turian. Now, how a slick fellow like this turian seemed to be could mix up Vega and Alenko…well, maybe he considered the error factor. Or maybe he'd simply wondered who the unexpected face was: after all, it was known that Liara was part of her cabal…

Shepard's eyes fell on the turian's hood. It covered the back of his neck, so there was no indication of an amp, but she began to feel certain it was there, particularly when he led them through an antechamber full of turians—anywhere from twelve to fifteen at a quick count—all wearing the red hood. Those sitting down got to their feet, all conversation ceasing, as he entered and, when she glanced back, conversations and seats were resumed once he left.

She did not like where her thoughts were going, _especially_ with Alenko in the hospital.

"So what does a turian biotic want with one of my crewmen?"

"You're very quick on the uptake, Captain." Cool approval, but he wasn't complimenting her. At the same time, she felt he could express grim distaste without actually _insulting_ her. Obviously he was the cabal's OIC, and she was inclined to respect that without the pressure of general courtesy.

He reminded her, in some ways, of Saren before the lunatic tendencies surfaced: cool, reserved, astute, the qualities she could have admired even as she hated his guts.

"You didn't answer my question."

"No," he agreed, "I didn't. It's a personal matter and this," he motioned to indicate the situation, not the bunker, "should be your primary concern."

"Believe me, it is. But my crew are also a primary concern, as is their...safety...when I'm not throwing them into shitfights." The faster he sidestepped the faster ideas began to glitter in her mind like winking stars. It might not be a good idea to like this turian if the glittering stars formed the path she suspected they did.

"I think it is safe to say we're all on the same side—though, I have to admit, I'm a bit surprised to say it."

"Nevertheless, some people hold onto grudges. Especially," she added slyly, "if family was involved."

The turian turned his head to regard her, his eyes narrowed speculatively. "There are bad apples," the way her translator glitched, she knew it was an imperfect translation of idiom, "in every family. And embarrassments." He was discreet, that was certain: he wouldn't discuss the matter openly, though he would discuss it in terms broad enough to make no sense to anyone unfamiliar with the context.

"I see. Still, blood is thicker than water. And turians have _very_ strong codes of honor about…things."

"I knew Saren Arterius. Helped _train_ him," the turian answered blandly, "and it was no embarrassment when he left us to become a Spectre."

The words had some kind of sub-context. She could almost feel it, like braille under her fingers.

'Embarrassment.' 'Left us.'

"But even a turian can admit when a brother falls off the path of wisdom. We admit that Saren suffered a breakdown. It was good that he was ended."

"His last act was honorable. I can respect that."

"If only that were true of others."

"That's a long time to wait to say 'thank you'," she ventured.

"And since your comrade is not here, I won't need to say it. That is a face-to-face conversation." By which he meant he did not expect her to pass 'thanks' along. Undoubtedly, from the tone of conversation, he wouldn't appreciate it.

There was no way she would ever broach the subject to Alenko, even supposing she could find time and a way to do it. It wouldn't matter, and would probably open old wounds, take him to places he'd rather not retread.

"We're discreet people," Shepard answered mildly. "Discreet people know which subjects not to broach."

"An admirable quality, Captain. This is your destination. The officer is charge is General Corinthus."


	78. Thwarted

General Corinthus was short for a turian, but gave the impression of being a very solid sort of person; in fact, as far as build went, he reminded her strongly of Saren. He also moved with a pronounced limp, not as if he was permanently damaged, but as if he'd had to live with a limp for so long that the muscles never recovered full strength. Somehow, it only added to the formidable sense of presence he created.

"So, you're Shepard. I'd heard you were coming but I didn't quite believe it." He looked her up and down, apparently finding nothing upon which to comment. "You're dismissed, Annaeus."

"Sir," the kabalim—that was what they called Cabal unit leaders—saluted, turned crisply, and left.

Something was odd about the dismissal, as if the kabalim was in some kind of disgrace, or on the general's shitlist. She couldn't say what the oddity was; it might even have to do with the internal workings of the Turian Hierarchy, since Annaeus hadn't been addressed by rank. Just by name.

"What can I do for you, Captain? Or are you here for them?" he motioned to the ceiling, indicating the Reapers.

"The turian councilor sent me to collect Primarch Fedorian, if he's still alive…" and, when the turian's expression closed off she added, "or his replacement." This would certainly complicate matters…but since when were things ever easy?

Corinthus shook his head. "Fedorian was killed about an hour ago when his shuttle went down. Reapers tagged him, sent him rocketing right into one of our topside entrenchments. Killed thirty-five not counting himself. Nothing he could do about it, either." The implication was obvious: if Fedorian was going to die, he would have preferred ramming his shuttle down a Reaper's throat.

"I'm sorry. I was given to understand he was a good man." It was true enough. She didn't think the turian councilor would care whether it was Fedorian or someone else at the summit as long as there was a turian there. Whatever he thought about Fedorian's loss, on a personal level relevant to himself, was a different matter entirely.

She was glad that the job would not be considered 'bungled' if she didn't bring Fedorian, as long as she brought _someone._

"And a good friend. He'd have made an outstanding diplomat," Corinthus agreed. "But we'll mourn when we're no longer being bombarded by…zombies?"

"Zombies, yeah," Shepard agreed, almost smiling at the original designation for husks: 'space zombies.' It seemed like a very, _very_ long time ago that the phrase was coined.

"I don't suppose you can offer any insight in how to push back a horde of zombies?" There was no snub in the general's words, just a tired man hoping (but not too much) for something he hadn't already tried. He was dug in, but hadn't made any progress in taking back ground. Holding was the best he could do.

"Take out their legs. If they can't run their effectiveness is greatly reduced. Overload tech can short them, but not for long. Biotics are best, provided they don't run out of juice."

"Yes, we've been making use of the Cabals we have on hand. Ah, well." He shook his head, clearly unused to working with biotics. It showed when people weren't accustomed to their gifted cohorts; it was often like that with humans, too.

Her innards convulsed slightly, remembering that her team was currently one biotic short.

"I'll get to work on finding out who the next—"

"Sir!" a scout—or so Shepard assumed—came running in, saluting hastily. "We've got heavy incursion on the north side. Kabalim Annaeus and his men are en route, but we just had a transport go down. He says he can get his men there to get the survivors out, but only once the incursion's dealt with. He wants your approval to make a trip out into the open."

Shepard looked from Corinthus to the scout, knowing that the request for permission was something of practicality: it boiled down to how many able soldiers Corinthus wanted to gamble for possibly all-dead ones.

"How long will it take you to find out who the next Primarch is?" she asked before Corinthus could respond.

If the process was going to be _that_ lengthy, she wasn't going to sit around in an over-glorified foxhole and wait. Vega was already chafing to be useful; he needed some kind of action to assuage his frustration over leaving Earth. Maybe a practical demonstration would impress upon him the necessity for patience—especially when even she did not feel like being patient.

Her guts said this would not be a fast thing; Corinthus' next words confirmed it. "Assuming I can go five minutes without a crisis cropping up? I'll have to check the roster, then get in touch with Palaven High Command. You're a soldier: you know what happens to communications in wartime. I suppose I should be grateful these Reaper shock troops aren't too bright. Haven't touched our communications rigs."

"My team and I are able and fresh for a fight. I'm also cleared for trauma care for non-humans."

"I have the basic skills as well," Liara put in helpfully.

"Extra hands mean extra speed…" Shepard put in briskly, in a low tone.

"And extra speed means fewer corpses." Corinthus sized Shepard up again, his beady eyes lingering on the N7 markings on her armor. He surely knew what they meant, and she was something of a Reaper expert, by virtue of experience if nothing else. She suspected he didn't like the idea of idle hands, either. "Janus! Take the Commander and her team, get them a couple medkits, and get them to the north side. Tell Annaeus I'm augmenting his Cabal: orders are to repel the incursion, shore up that entry point, and get those men _out_ of the field! Make a dent, Captain. Good hunting."

Shepard nodded sharply, took off after Janus, who led them down a long, winding tunnel.


	79. Method

Preparing the team to augment the Cabal did not take long: just long enough to grab medkits—Vega carried one in case the number of wounded exceeded expectation—and to be equipped with glowsticks, so no turian would see a husk-like silhouette and open fire.

It would not help matters if a Council Spectre blended in with the enemy a little too well.

Gold glowsticks, so Janus pointed out without being asked, signified outside-force friendlies.

Annaeus was not within the bunker any longer, but just outside with the bulk of his force pushing back the husk incursion from a half-hidden cargo bay or garage. At the entrance, the doors of which were open only as wide as was needful, stood four Cabalists, three sustaining a field, one apparently resting.

As Shepard watched, the Cabalist at rest stepped up to the Cabalist at the far left, raising his hands as he did so. The Cabalist on the far right watched for the telltale glow and, for a moment, the barrier shimmered at the application of further power. Then, the Cabalist on the far right stepped back, ceasing to maintain his barricade while all the others shuffled to return the three defenders to the three original positions.

It was a clever bit of work: three on, one off, so no one ran out of juice all at once. There was time to breathe, time to grab a shot of electrolyte-rich juice or eat something before re-entering the rotation, if they had to do this over long periods of time.

"I've got three for Kabalim Annaeus!" Janus called to the Cabalist-at-rest. "Reinforcements."

"Prep for dispatch!" the Cabalist barked. Clearly, lines of communication were stratified in such a way that those holding barriers did not get distracted by people talking to them: one spoke to the man-off-rotation and he would relay if it was important.

The cohesion of the unit, the balance of duties and responsibilities left an exceptionally favorable impression on Shepard. If human biotics could be organized half as well…she felt comfortable in the decision that Alenko, too, would approve. He'd probably be fascinated. Human biotics, after all, were peppered throughout the service branches. Turians seemed to like to keep them together. There had to be something comforting in being in a tight group with 'people like yourself.'

"Three outgoing!" the turian closest to rotating off announced. "Step up to the barrier, one at a time!" then, he promptly switched to his radio. "Kabalim: three reinforcements incoming. Yes sir."

Shepard stepped up first, stationing herself on the speaker's right—because that was where he looked for her.

"On three you step past the field."

"Aye-aye." Shepard nodded, shifting her shotgun to a ready position, prepared to come out swinging, as it were.

"One. Two Three." The quick count was followed by a general shift of power, leaving a thin margin of the gap between the doors unblocked. If Shepard had to describe it, she would have said two of the turians held vertical fields, while the one managing the exit maintained a lateral one, leaving just a little rectangular patch of space for her to pass through.

Once outside, she could hear the fight. Annaeus and his Cabalists must have forced the husks back ninety degrees away from the door. Within minutes, Vega and Liara were with her. Glancing back, Shepard found the three turians watching intently, one appearing to watch the sky, another the field before him, the third—the one who'd handled the exit—giving the augmenting force his undivided attention.

The battle had already pitched in the Cabal's favor. They stood in little clusters of three or four, some tight some loose, each unit working at once as separate groups, yet still part of the greater whole. The use of power was efficient and no one, so far, had been forced to go for their sidearms.

"If you're here for the hunting you're a little late, Commander," the voice of Kabalim Annaeus announced moments later. The husk incursion might have started large, but it hadn't lasted against the fresh fighters.

Shepard, however, recognize the inherent weakness in the Cabal's battlefield orientation: if one got separated he and the small subgroup to which he belonged would be in trouble. They were dependent on their peers, their teammates, to a degree that would impede action should the group take losses.

Of course, they could probably rearrange themselves, like molecules, to attach to other subgroups, but she had the feeling that all this orderliness came with a cost. They were not trained to work solo; she wasn't sure how small a group could be and still function—or whether proximity to the other subgroups was a necessity.

"I'm here to tell you you're go for the extraction. And General Corinthus has authorized my unit to assist."

"Never ask a varren to count his teeth." The idiom startled Shepard; for a moment it made no sense. She suspected he meant that it was better to see if the varren could chew on anything and prove he had teeth rather than risk being bitten for curiosity.

Anneaus waved his Cabal to close in, which they did, forming two semicircles, one facing Annaeus, Shepard, and her crew, the rest facing outward, surveying the battlefield. "Seal yourselves in, and wait for me to radio you." Annaeus motioned to the door guards who immediately fell to and obeyed. "We have to go in on foot, another shuttle'll just get shot down. These Reapers are seriously undermining our ability to control a battlefield by quickly redistributing our forces," Annaeus announced.

"I've got a fix on the shuttle site, sir. We'll need to move quickly…" the turian looked much younger than Annaeus, possibly younger than Garrus. He clearly doubted whether the humans and asari could keep up with whatever quick-time the turians were trained to use.

"All right, you're the lead. Forty-fifty, single-file, fall in."

Shepard understood 'forty-fifty' within seconds: he meant 'walk forty, run fifty.'

Efficient. Very efficient.


	80. Practices

"The thing's swarming with husks!" someone up front called.

"I want three teams, Shepard go with trauma care!" Annaeus barked.

"Vega's not certified, I'll leave him to you!" No sense squandering a resource, and Vega would be much happier where he could do some damage.

"Then he can help secure the shuttle! Plenty to do there!"

"Aye-aye!" And, when Shepard went 'oi!' to Vega, he repeated the sentiment.

The turians peeled off, silently counting off 'one, two, three' among themselves in order to discern who went where. The first team (sans Annaeus), continued forward progress to the downed shuttle. It was a small troop transport, probably bringing reinforcements to one of the surface operating bases—judging from Corinthus' description of Fedorian's shuttle crash, most small bases were topside, the larger complexes underground.

Husks were, in fact, swarming the shuttle but not without resistance. From the wrecked doorway, rotated almost ninety degrees from its proper orientation (putting the shuttle on its side) came the pop-pop of gunfire. Shepard switched from her shotgun to her sidearm—the latter easier to manage in a confined space and reliant on one slug rather than a shower of pellets.

"Friendlies inbound!" one of the turians barked over the noise. The call came just as the second and third clusters of Cabalists flanked the husks.

The husks heard the noise, recognized further enemies, and split their attention, only to find themselves biotically blindsided. Those who moved towards the running trauma team were ripped away from the ground, and away from the shuttle, and flung with the sort of overemphasized violence that spoke of things the turians' demeanors didn't show, among them loss, frustration, rage, their own ineffectiveness, knowledge that they—a species trained for war, steeped in the warrior traditions—were as ineffectual a three-legged varren.

Shepard reached the shuttle behind one particularly lanky turian, who barked that there were humans in tow—some things really did require a warning—and dropped in. The interior of the shuttle was dark, the dead were already piled, as ceremoniously as possible, to one end of the vehicle, leaving room for the injured.

"Gimme your torches," Shepard commanded. Liara and Vega, who crouched on the exterior hull of the shuttle, rifle at the ready, both turned over the small lights. Shepard turned them on, then hung them from the nearest hooks before adding her own flashlight to the nearest cluster, the same routine one of the other turians performed.

Light in the shuttle revealed that most of the turians were hurt in some way or another. From what she could tell, the injuries came because the ship hit hard, nose first, then flipped, then was rolled by something else. There was a dent mark on the ground-down side. Whatever hit the shuttle had been strong enough to knock it a full two hundred seventy degrees over.

"Vega! Something big and ugly's out there! Eyes open!"

He pounded the hull, the sound muffled but clear confirmation nonetheless.

Shepard dropped by one of the turians, immediately isolating the wound: a deep thing in one leg. It looked as though he'd caught on something during the initial impact, or during the secondary impact that flipped the shuttle, then been wrenched or flung loose before he could disengage himself.

"Is it bad?" he asked.

"Ah, this is just a scrape." Her fingers traced the edges of the wound. Turian carapace required a bit more care than the softer skins of humans and asari, because the plates could, for a variety of reasons, split further once compromised. "You'll be gimping back to base under your own steam. No one's going to have to carry you. How do your feet feel?"

Turians only got cold feet, apparently, when the body needed to conserve warmth or when they lost a lot of blood. Turian blood was thicker than that of most species, so while a wound might generate less than the unaccustomed might expect, the proportion might be far greater. She'd heard stories of injured turians during the First Contact War bleeding out because no one realized they were badly hurt.

That was _before_ anyone realized turians weren't levo-amino based.

"Feet're fine. Feeling a bit dizzy, though," came the response as she packed the wound with medigel, then lay a heavy medical mesh over the crack and the wound, smearing a further layer of omnigel over it to keep it from splitting further, then a traditional gauze bandage.

That was a human hallmark. She could hear Major Webb in the back of her mind: humans slapped gauze wraps or pads on _everything_ so other humans would know where the injury was. Turians weren't like that: they didn't want anyone but medical personnel knowing where they were hurt.

Nevertheless, medkits were fairly standardized, even between dextro- and levo-based varieties. "Put your hand here," she took his hand, lay it over the bandage, then gently slipped his helmet off in order to check for swelling.

This was one place where humans had an advantage: smaller, softer fingers could find abnormalities more quickly than a turian's thicker, harder digits. The obvious disadvantage was that a turian would have more familiarity with treating one of their own than a human would.

"You've got a bit of a dent up here, but nothing I'd worry over. Have your medic give you a proper once-over when you get back to base, just to be safe. You never know with head wounds…" her thought trailed off, but her voice stayed steady.

Head wounds could go either way.

"You're good. Just sit here until we can hoist you out." With that, Shepard moved on to the next patient—or would have, had a call of 'human, I need your fingers' not redirected her efforts.

"What is it?" she demanded, scuttling over to the one who'd called.

"This man's been _shot_ ," the turian said quietly, one talon moving to point at the hole that had torn through what had to be a scout's light armor.


	81. Procedure

"Shot?" Husks didn't use guns. Shepard bit her lip. "Friendly, maybe?"

"How could it be?" the Cabalist responded, without scorn. "I want you to dig the slug out. If it's radioactive or worse, I don't want it in there." He pointed near the hole.

"Near the liver…" That was better than she could have hoped for. Turian livers had one lobe that wasn't as well-protected by a turian's exterior as the rest. As a result—Major Webb's voice continued echoing in her head as her memory dredged up images of him digging around in an omnigel, ballistic gel, whatever-else-kind-of-gel model turian—that lobe of the liver had a tougher outer covering. It couldn't stop a bullet, but if a projectile was already slowing or slowed, it was unlikely to penetrate the organ.

There were a lot of theories as to why this was, but none were ever confirmed.

"Gimme some light." Shepard wiped her hands as best she could. Tweezers would be ideal, but she did not want to go probing around inside an injured turian without knowing whether she was poking his liver or chasing the slug around. She pulled off her hand plates, leaving only the heavy mesh underlay.

The first time she tried something like this, she'd 'killed' Tom Turian. The last time, Major Webb had declared—to her surprise—that Tom Turian died of post-procedural infection and warned her _never_ to work on a turian if she could help it.

The turian groaned as she slid a finger into the wound, remembering how often she'd been told that this was a last-ditch sort of thing to do. It was better to plug the hole and take him back to base.

But the Cabalist was right: if the slug was something Reaper-esque, leaving it in might be as damaging as fishing it out. It might even have more sinister effects than killing the victim. She didn't want to think about it.

Her finger brushed something near the surface of the liver. "Found it. Tweezers." She held up her other hand. "I need tweezers or something," Shepard repeated, "nail file, hell, anything I can—that'll work," she finished once a very thin object—a stiletto or similar—was handed to her. She slid the thin blade into the wound, careful not to scrape the liver, used it to press the slug against her finger and, with all care, coaxed it up.

"I can see it." The Cabalist, delicately, biotically lifted the slug free, allowing Shepard to retract the stiletto—which was accepted when she held it up, and her finger. As the Cabalist examined the slug, she patched the hole, then the armor over it with a heavy dollop of omnigel.

"This _is_ one of ours," the Cabalist noted, frowning. "It shouldn't be here." Clearly there were other signs that meant something to the turian but which Shepard missed.

Shepard's stomach went cold. Indoctrinated troops? Damn but Reapers worked fast…

"Any accidental fire?" the cabalist demanded.

"No, sir!" came the hasty reply.

"We need to get these guys out of here. _Now_."

"You know something?" the Cabalist secreted the slug somewhere in his gear before giving her his attention.

"Nothing definite…" Shepard meant to say more, but Vega poked his head over the doorway.

"Shepard! They're pulling back."

"The Cabal or the Reapers?" Shepard wished she hadn't asked it quite like that, for it garnered a few dirty looks. Clearly she should have realized—so their logic went—that the Cabal wouldn't pull out while the wounded were still alive.

"Reapers."

Reapers didn't pull back.

"We good here?" she asked the room at large.

Upon getting a general sense of 'yes, we're fine' she climbed out of the shuttle, hopping down to find Annaeus.

His two subgroups stood in a circle around the shuttle by this time, a weak biotic barrier like a fence running between the members. From the way the turians all seemed to be breathing hard, she suspected this 'fence' was a very recent construct. "Report," he demanded, once he was aware of Shepard.

"We're just about done, I think. We need to leave as soon as possible. There's something here I don't like." More than one something, though she didn't say so.

"Close on me!" Annaeus barked. Within moments he disconnected from the shielding crew and pulled Shepard closer to the shuttle, keeping his voice down. "Husks don't fall back. They get _pushed_ back and then have to sort their stupid selves out again."

Husks were certainly stupid. It was one of the saving graces about fighting them.

"And there are a couple other things that don't feel right," Shepard continued warily. She was so used to having this sort of information dismissed that she did not want to go into detail just to be told 'we'll sort it out later.'

Annaeus must have realized as much, for he immediately stated, "I'm listening."

It was the first time Shepard appreciated what being a 'Reaper expert' really meant. If she felt a change in the winds, the change would be given due consideration. "We've got one guy nailed by a slug—we pulled it out, but it turned out to be one of yours."

"Damn. Indoctrinating us already?" Annaeus shook his head.

Shepard wasn't sure what to hope in that respect. She'd seen what the recently-dubbed 'Cannibals' did to a battlefield dynamic, and they had appeared on the galactic stage _only_ after the Reapers hit Kar'shan. The implications were uncomfortable and seemed to indicate an alarming precedent.

Perhaps 'alarming' was the wrong word: she felt more grimly unsurprised than anything else, and wondered if, to some degree, she'd become desensitized to the way Reapers could corrupt organics.

"They work fast. There's damage to the ship I can't account for. I can see where it got hit but the secondary damage is wrong. Like something _slammed_ it. _After_ it crashed."

"Could be something, could be nothing, but let's err on the side of caution."

"Please, let's."


	82. Breakdown

They had the manpower, so they brought the dead back with them.

The return to the base occurred in an odd sort of disconnect: anyone looking could see the large Reaper units moving about like bugs on a rock, or hovering in the atmosphere like squid in the sea. But here, on the ground, there was nothing. Not even the pop-pop of gunfire.

The silence grated on nerves.

Liara watched Shepard, who helped support one of the less-wounded but mobility-hampered turians. She staggered a bit under the weight, but held her own courageously. Her drift told a different story, a kind of stark white with a chalky 'taste' to it.

Every step from the shuttle to the doors of the underground bunker was taken in a sort of cold apprehension.

Everyone waited for the 'next bad thing' to happen, but nothing did. The nothingness was even more ominous than the wait.

"What do you think?" Shepard asked Annaeus as they filed in behind the rest of the convoy, eyes raking the empty terrain they had just covered.

"If it were any other enemy I'd say we were followed and should expect an ambush. Damn these things; I hate not knowing what they're thinking." Annaeus shook his head, surveying the cargo bay as medical personnel swarmed over the dead and injured.

Shepard looked away from the lands beyond only when the heavy doors shut, sealing off the facility completely. "If I may, I'd leave a larger detachment down here than you left to keep the door blocked while we were out."

"If something smells bad it's probably not good to eat," Annaeus nodded in agreement. "I don't need you to tell me that, Captain." His tone held no censure or criticism, he was simply passing along information.

The lights overhead fluxed, throwing the cargo bay into momentary darkness before they sputtered back on. "…please tell me your generators are underground."

"Primaries are. Secondaries are topside, in the outpost you came through. The power would flux if they got hit—designed to, you know, so we don't accidentally rely on generators that aren't there." Annaeus answered darkly. He turned sharply, barking orders at his men who immediately split into two groups, one of which stayed, arraying themselves in two rows facing the exit, the other party taking off at a trot, leaving the medical personnel to wrangle the dead and wounded.

" _Paging Captain Shepard to the command cell. Repeat: paging Captain Shepard to the command cell._ "

Shepard motioned her cohorts to follow her as she took off at a trot, Annaeus assuming he should guide the way.

The lights fluxed again, then stabilized. "I think our overhead outpost is under attack," Annaeus noted, his tone calm but terse.

Shepard only nodded, resisting the urge to strike off to find out what it was by herself.

"There you are," General Corinthus announced the instant he caught sight of Shepard. "I had your man on the line. His base was overrun and his post isn't responding to any radio communications. Given what I heard before he died…" Corinthus shook his head. "How many did you lose out in the field?"

"None of the force we took out," Annaeus answered. "Six of the shuttle crew were dead, two badly hurt. Shepard dug a friendly slug out of one of the boys."

"Stray fire?" The fact that he made it a question showed the uncertainty of the situation.

"Apparently not," Shepard answered. "What's going on topside?"

Corinthus grimaced. "They got hit. They insist they're fine and can continue holding."

Shepard resisted offering the advice 'pull them in.' "Guess we know where all those husks went."

"And it's _odd_ ," Annaeus put in flatly, "we've been repelling husks for days. They don't just pull back and arbitrarily pick an easier target. They're too damn stupid."

"Any theories, Captain?" Corinthus asked.

"I think I'd like to have a look topside."

"Negative. I asked for theories, not plans," Corinthus responded simply.

The argument was broken up by a flurry of activity, curses and profanities from an antechamber. A harassed-looking turian snapped out, "Sir! We lost main comms! The surface teams aren't responding on shortwave."

Corinthus frowned, his mandibles pulling close to his chin, though they waved a little as he did so. "Do you get your way at all times?"

"Surprisingly often and I usually wish I hadn't," Shepard sighed.

"I hate Spectres. Damned all-purpose freaks of society and nature." He let out a long sigh, shaking his head.

Shepard understood that the complaint was nothing personal.

"Annaeus, let her and her squad out the back: they can loop around discreetly…"

Annaeus' hand jumped to one of his ear-slits. He listened, his eyes growing round. "I don't think she'll be getting out that way," he announced grimly. "My team down in the garage said they've just come under heavy bombardment. And whatever it is, it's big. 'Flipped the shuttle' big."

" _Tactics_? The ground forces have _tactics_?" Vega demanded.

"Something in the dynamic has changed," Shepard said needlessly. "Sounds like they've got two of your entrances covered."

"That could be why they let us get back to the bunker," Liara noted, "seal as many of us in here as possible and just…" She shook her head.

"I can't do a damn thing without our communications network up, and I'm not sending a unit topside into the arms of those _things_ without knowing a little more about the situation."

"I love being expendable," Shepard responded grimly.

"Then go do what you're good at: don't be. Send them out the west side," Corinthus dictated to Annaeus. "It's the closest to the comm tower. Then _come back_ ," he added.

The kabalim gave the equivalent of pursing his lips, but saluted and took off at a brisk walk. "The comm tower is almost opposite the garage entrance."

"We'll keep our eyes peeled, see if we can't sort out what the other problems are. Keep your head down," Shepard responded.

"Some cabalist I'd be without it."


	83. Breather

Garrus Vakarian watched the scattered troops he'd pulled together filing into the underground bunker. He ached from head to foot, especially his left knee. It had turned wrong when he'd made a slide for cover; he didn't think it was bad, but it did hurt and trying not to limp made it hurt worse.

His gaze drifted up to Palaven. The Hierarchy knew Earth had been hit, he could only imagine what Shepard's marble of a world looked like. He wished she was here, though. The thought was hollow and he tried not to wonder if the Reapers had finally succeeded in killing her.

He followed the last of his men, the hiss of the airlock reassuring closed.

It had all happened so fast, faster than even he expected. The only small comforts were that the Fleet had managed to surprise the Reapers…until the Reapers pulled the same tactic, and that the forces on Menae—and, presumably, Nanus—were holding, their heels dug in.

Who would have thought relics from the Krogan Rebellions would come in handy against Reapers? Menae and Nanus were considered Hierarchy secrets, but he'd been surprised at how easily he'd been allowed to reinforce them. Maybe someone in the political tier wanted a bigger budget, and reinforcing the two moons somehow helped move that agenda.

The other bonus, one that hadn't been hard to wrangle, was a sizable portion of the turian cabals. Biotics were held with a general distrust; he'd worked with biotics long enough to know that while they were good for ground forces, they'd be in high demand and short supply once things got started.

They were one reason that Menae, at least, was holding so well. Well, that was his opinion. The red hoods that marked them were everywhere, whether in their little units of three or in bigger squadrons. He wasn't sure they could be moved offworld, but the possibility existed.

He didn't want to think about losing Menae or Palaven, but he couldn't pretend it wasn't a possibility.

"Vakarian, sir!" an aide hurried up to him. "Need you in the communications room. Promptly, if you please."

He nodded, followed alone, realizing that standing still had made the ache in his knee worse. "What is it?" he demanded.

"We've got General Corinthus on the line. He was looking for you earlier," the aide responded. "Go ahead, General. We found him."

" _Good_ ," the fuzzy hologram declared before giving Garrus his attention. " _Vakarian, sir. There's been a development._ "

"Oh?" his mandibles pulled in close to his chin. That sounded ominous. The lights flickered before stabilizing, indicating a topside generator had gone out.

" _Yes. Your Spectre friend, Shepard? She just headed out to repair one of our communications towers._ "

"Shepard?" Garrus asked, his mandibles splaying, his jaw hanging open. "Here?"

Express wish…receive Shepard.

" _Yes, sir. I figured you'd want to know._ "

"I do. Is she heading back to your outpost? Do you know why she's _here_?" It wasn't to rescue him. Shepard was practical enough not to go looking for a needle in a haystack. But if she was here…she had a really good reason. Why else would she come to this corner of the galaxy?

" _She should be heading back once she's got the tower fixed. She's looking for the Primarch—needs to get him to some kind of political meet-up. I don't know_ ," Corinthus heaved a sigh, " _it's all above my pay grade._ "

Garrus chuckled: jokes about something being above one's pay grade were one of the few cross-species jokes…although the nuances of the words were different for turians, generally implying 'which is a convenient excuse, because I really _don't_ want to know.' "I'll be there as soon as I can." Then, "Don't-don't tell her I'm here, just yet. Just in case." He managed to make the sentences sound robust and confident, despite the stammers.

" _We'll do that, sir. Looking for the Primarch is getting more and more difficult by the hour. She could be here awhile._ "

"Good. I'll get moving as soon as I can."

" _Yes, sir._ " Corinthus disconnected the link, leaving Garrus to limp down to the medbay.

While the medic saw to his knee—just a wrench, nothing dramatic—he considered the changed situation. It was good to know Shepard was alive. Now, he wished he'd asked if she'd brought anyone with her.

Garrus did not waste time, requesting the outpost's sit-rep while the medic did what she could. Things were getting worse: he'd seen the Reaper-corrupted turians long before anyone made official reports about them. It was disgusting, but it didn't really surprise him. Look what the Reapers had done to humans: varieties of husks, Scions, all sorts of shuffling grotesques. He wasn't sure about the hefty ones with the cannon arms—cannibals, they'd been declared, after repeated observances of eating their fallen fellows…and growing stronger for it.

Efficient, he thought with distaste. And if the turian husk retained any of its pre-death appearance…very efficient. Some people hesitated to pull the trigger on a one-time friend.

' _One-time_ friend!' he'd shouted. Since they appeared, he felt as though he'd shouted himself hoarse about it more than once. He wasn't insensible to the pain of shooting a familiar face…but if _he_ got repurposed, he prayed to whatever spirits were out there that someone put him out of his misery.

He had no desire to aid the Reapers' plans. None.

"You're good to go, sir," the medic announced.

Garrus slipped off the medical table, sighed as his knee only twinged a little, not like the throbbing ache that left him wondering if his knee wouldn't swell up like a buffoon—to use the humanism—if it had the space to do so. "That's a lot better, thanks." He readjusted his accoutrements and set up a navpoint to Corinthus' outpost on his omnitool. Crossing large swathes of ground was difficult, but not impossible.

His thoughts trailed back to Victus, wondering if his diversion had successfully taken enough pressure off the beleaguered general.


	84. Altered

The base topside was still there as Liara, Shepard, and Vega slipped out along the rock face in that general direction. In fact, it sounded to Vega as though the worst of the incursion was over, and the troops were ready to begin putting their bastion back together.

"Friendlies!" A turian voice barked.

Vega looked up to find them half-hidden behind low burms, wearing shroud-like wraps that helped them blend in with the terrain. Clearly, they were keeping an eye on the back entrance.

"Where're you headed?"

"Helping with the comm grid!" Shepard responded. "And checking on your generators!"

A heavy cable was tossed down. Shepard motioned Vega and Liara to go first, then followed herself.

Husks had, Vega took in rapidly, gotten into the camp but had also been pushed back. Corpses lay scattered about, though some of the turians—the ones not repairing damaged equipment or mounting guard on the barricades—were dragging them into piles

"They came up over the foremost barricade," one of the sentries explained to Shepard. "But we pushed them back. Should be getting the grid back up any minute. Go talk to Sgt. Bartus; he's in charge."

"Shepard!" Liara caught Shepard's attention as she climbed into the outpost. "That one looks…odd."

Vega and Shepard both followed Liara's pointing finger, Shepard sliding the last few feet to the ground. "Huh." She hurried over to the husk, the lights of which still glowed faintly red.

Vega's brows furrowed; he'd seen these things before and, if he were Shepard, he wouldn't want to get that close.

"I've seen these before," Shepard noted, prodding it with a finger. Something about it seemed to hold Shepard's interest—he'd heard her referred to as 'having geekish tendencies' but he'd never shared that opinion.

It might be time to revise said opinion…

"EDI? I'm sending you a scan," Shepard dictated calmly, cuing her omnitool, "run it against the Abominations the Collectors were using last time and let me know what you find."

" _They have changed the placement of the power core and added a secondary node in the chest cavity,_ " EDI responded. " _Additionally, given the overall cohesion of the dead husk post-deactivation, I project that the unit's has purpose been modified._ "

"Modified to _what_?" Shepard asked, lowering her voice.

" _Working in theory, I would suggest that they serve as sabotage units_."

"Shepard," Liara, listening to the conversation, touched her shoulder, "the generators. Remember that flux?"

Vega picked them out. Sure enough, there were scorch marks and signs of damage, but this was to be expected and there was no proof the husk had anything to do with it.

"Sounds reasonable," Shepard agreed.

" _It is also possible that, while active, they emit a dampening field for short-range communications. I will recalibrate to prevent communication lapse between you and the Normandy."_

Vega frowned at the husk, disconcerted by it and by the way Shepard was discussing it. One would have thought it was a frog in a high school science lab.

"I'll keep my eyes peeled," Shepard was saying, "I want a log of the stuff they're throwing at us. Fewer surprises that way," she added, under her breath.

" _Shall I arrange them alphabetically with high-resolution, color images? Individuals often respond positively to books with large pictures_." A long pause during which Shepard frowned, trying to reason out the statement. " _…that was a joke._ "

Vega shivered at an AI who made jokes.

" _Shepard, its power signature is fluxing…"_

"Back up! Get down!" Shepard whipped out her pistol, her omnitool flaring. As she followed half of her own command—'back up'—she unloaded rounds into the husk. The husk convulsed, then let off a surge of power that caused Shepard's shields to fizzle, then go down. However, it was immediately apparent that she had both her shield generators running in tandem, probably just so she could take the surge.

She waited, seeming to count—as everyone around her got back up, weapons trained on the downed husk—then nodded slowly as her shields shimmered, returning to full charge.

A cold chill went through Vega. The stony way she'd just stood there and took the charged shockwave, the look she was giving the now-dead husk, was so reminiscent of Capt. Toni that she could have been one of his students. He had a way of rubbing off on people.

"I'm looking for Sgt. Bartus!" Shepard snapped, her voice carrying across the base as she holstered her pistol. The words brought action and a sort of wakefulness back to her corner of the encampment.

"Over here!" came a call from a turian who had vaulted out of one of the prefabs. Shepard's sudden gunfire had attracted virtually all attention and no few weapons were leveled in her direction. "I'm Bartus," a turian answered.

"Change in SOPs on those things," Shepard pointed to the remains of the husk. "Shoot it until the lights go out. Looks like it's got a secondary power core and it'll probably get back up once you're not paying attention to it."

It was a good ploy, Vega thought. Let it take out communications or generators or whatever, then play possum and ambush unwary personnel. _Damn_ but he hated these things…

"Auric!" Bartus turned, mandibles pulled close to his jaw, "Take three men, find the rest of _those_ ," he pointed, "and make sure they're dead. What about the blue ones? You think they've been, ah, modified as well?"

Shepard walked over and scanned one, her lips pursed in a thin line. Clearly she'd been wondering the same thing as well.

Vega shook his head slowly. The Reapers were getting smarter. Maybe a guidebook (with pictures) _would_ be a good idea. Let people know what to expect…though how long it would take before the Reapers re-upgraded to make the information defunct would make it a fast-changing book with lots of editing.

It wouldn't make sense for the Reapers to run out of ideas on how to pervert an organic to their own purposes.


	85. Example

The comm tower was surrounded by dead turians (and one or two Shepard thought might still be alive) and husks. She paused by the first turian, found that he really was alive. "Hang in there," she murmured, pulling a pain-shot from the medkit she now carried, checked that it was blue on the handle end, and pressed it into his neck, as close to the shoulder as his armor allowed. "Just hang in there."

"I've got another one over here, Shepard!" Liara called softly.

Shepard tossed her another pain-shot, then slunk over to where Vega crouched. "Think that's all of them," he murmured.

"Okay," Shepard began once Liara joined them. "Liara, find out what you can about the tower, see if you can get it running. Vega, you're with me on crowd control. Once we've got the situation contained, we'll get these boys back to the outpost." Shepard switched from her rifle to her shotgun. "Shotguns are great for husks. We'll go in first."

"Right." Vega nodded, following Shepard's lead in switching to his shotgun.

Liara only nodded, her barrier flaring, visibly stronger than before.

"Go, go, go!" Shepard was on her feet and moving as if her knees were spring-loaded. The husks had a few seconds for their slow brains to realize there was fresh organic nearby. Their running charge, hissing and gurgling as they came, was interrupted by blast after blast of shotgun fire, the pellets ripping into them

The two marines pressed forward, Vega realizing that Shepard's pace was measured and deliberate. Step-fire-step. Step-fire-step. It carried her at an inexorable pace, and seemed so ingrained he didn't thinks he realized she was doing it.

He matched the pattern if not the stride, found it made the half-breath-out before firing a little easier to manage. Was it an N7 trick, or just something she'd picked up over the years?

It didn't matter, and as they reached the tower, she proved she could do it when moving sideways, too.

"We can't fix this from the console," Liara declared, looking sharply after a few minutes of work during which nearby husks surged to converge on their position. "It's been damaged. Someone will have to go up."

"Then hit that tower!" Shepard barked after a moment in which she checked for incoming enemies. "Alright, Vega! We're digging in!" Shepard jerked her head for him to pick a spot. There were plenty of rocky outcroppings to hid behind, craters pockmarking the uneven terrain, and abandoned embarkations evidencing turian holding action that had failed or been abandoned for other tactical reasons. "These things'll flank you given half a chance, so watch it!"

Now that they weren't moving, the advice didn't seem unwarranted. He dropped behind a stony outcropping, vaguely noticing that it was rough, full of holes, like volcanic rock. Not something someone not wearing armor should trip and fall against.

"What're you up to?" he asked as Shepard, still keeping one eye on her surroundings, began manufacturing tech mines. Lots of them.

"Giving us a head start," she answered. She counted silently, stood up and flung the mines as hard as she could and as far as she could before dropping down. From the way she held her omnitool, Vega was sure the charges were on a manual trigger.

"Incoming!" the word jumped to his mouth as a Reaper 'dropship' fell like a comet, bursting open on impact to disgorge its quota of ground pounders. They immediately stumbled into Shepard's tech mines,. Her hand flicked against her omnitool and the husks hissed and shrieked as the tech mines exploded, spraying accelerant everywhere before a charged spark lit the stuff. Even in Menae's thin atmosphere, the incendiary mines did their job.

"I've got them on the right! Eyes peeled left and forward!"

It was good to know where her attention was, to know how much of the field he needed to watch _closely_ and how much of it was covered by overlap.

But it only took once of not watching his flank…

"Vega! _Left_!"

He turned in time to see a husk come careening out of his blindside.

He surged to his feet, drew back his shotgun and slammed it into the husk's chest to stagger it before before clobbering it with his elbow for good measure.

Then, for 'better measure,' stomped on its head as it hit the ground. The feel of skull and…the stuff in it…crushing and squelching under his boot was even more unpleasant than the thing reaching for his eyeballs.

" _Watch_ your flank!" Shepard barked, then said no more about it.

And he watched his flank.

"How're we doing, Liara?" Shepard barked after the third dropship. The ground was scattered with husk corpses.

"Still working on it!"

"Shepard! Those husks look like turians!" Vega shouted, unsure if his voice betrayed his surprise.

"Shit," Shepard growled.

Was there _anything_ she didn't expect?

"Keep the pressure on the husks! I wanna see what these things do!" Shepard called.

"If you say so!" They were all enemies alike. Why did it matter how they shuffled?

Shepard switched to her rifle, picking off husks at range, but switching her focus between the turian-husk and the regular variety. Suddenly, she squeezed the trigger and the turian hit the ground.

 _Whoom_. "Watch your flank, Shepard!" Liara's voice cried in the wake of the wave of dark energy that warped an encroaching turian-husk as it sought to creep up on the trio.

Shepard didn't swear this time, but continued picking off husks. "You get it fixed?"

"Yes! General Corinthus should be—"

Liara did not need to finish, for the general's rumbly voice cut across their communications channel. " _Shepard, we've got comms back up. Are you there?_ "

"Yes, I'm here! Send a couple pairs of hands, we've got a few survivors!"

" _Damn good to hear_ ," Corinthus growled. " _Hold position. I'll scramble you some help_."

"Once they get here, I want a look at these turian husks!" Shepard barked.

"Closet anthropologist, Shepard?" Vega asked.

"Something like that!"


	86. Reunited

"Shepard? Shepard, wake up," came the quiet, coaxing tones, before the pressure of a hand on her shoulder appeared, followed by gentle shaking.

Shepard opened her eyes slowly, squinting into the darkness. She had to admit, there was something to sleeping in a barracks with a lot of turians: they didn't snore uproariously the way humans sometimes did. There was just a soft buzz when they did. "Why am I _not_ surprised to find you here?" Shepard asked, carefully shifting so she sat in the hammock, the way she'd seen turians do.

Garrus settled beside her, stretching out his long legs with a sigh, indicating he'd been on his feet longer than he liked. "It's like I said when I got word you'd paid us a little visit: express wish, receive Shepard. I'm glad you got off Earth. Anyone else make it?"

"Liara, you probably already saw her, Engineer Adams, we picked up Dr. Chakwas at the Citadel…Alenko got off with us but…he's hurt," Shepard answered, a bit shortly. "Pretty bad."

"He's got too much gizzard to polish to just keel over and die." If Garrus hadn't elbowed her suggestively, Shepard might have missed the implications.

"I refrain from making the obvious protest." But the sentiment helped a little. At least Garrus hadn't invoked Alenko being a fighter. And the idea of Alenko pulling through so he could suck up to her really was funny.

Alenko was too proud to suck up to _anyone_.

"You do that."

They sat that way for some time, shoulder to shoulder in the darkness, silent and absorbed in their own thoughts.

"How're you holding up?" Shepard finally asked.

"What you've seen is what we've got. Taetrus was hit hard—kind of a slap in the face for us. We lost three million on Palaven the first day they were here, five the second. They're razing any city that puts up resistance," Garrus answered, sidestepping the inquiry that was equally about his health and wellness.

"Let me guess, they're all resisting." That sounded like the turians. 'Never say quit.'

Garrus chuckled in the darkness, thumping a congratulatory fist on her knee. "Right in one."

"At least you're dug in good," she pointed out. "I have to say, I am impressed."

"Menae and Nanus—Menae's sister moon—are relics of the Krogan Rebellions. We figured they'd do like you did in the Bahak system and slam the moons into us if they couldn't do anything more constructive. So we fortified. This is all very classified, by the way," Garrus added, elbowing her gently. "And you've _got_ lips, so don't let them be loose."

Shepard elbowed him back. "So you used the existing infrastructure." The fact that they had a second moon fortified—she assumed at least as well as Menae—staggered her.

"Absolutely. The Reapers are still figuring out where we're holed up underground. The stuff they see topside…" he shook his head. "Lots of brave volunteers, there."

"How'd you get all this done in six months?"

"Like I said, most of Menae and Nantus were in place. They let me reinforce a bit, shuffle some troops up here. I heard you were getting on well with our cabals."

"Yeah, I actually—wait, _you_? This is _your_ brainchild?" Shepard found herself grinning at him.

"I don't know about _brainchild_ …but you _are_ elbowing the current turian Reaper Adviser with those sharp elbows of yours."

Shepard elbowed him again for good measure and received a return gesture. "How?"

"I did something I never thought I'd do. I talked to my dad."

Shepard knew what that meant to Garrus, which was why she reached around and hooked a hand on his shoulder.

"Went better than I expected…though I think my uglier-than-usual mug might have had something to do with it. I told him everything, about Saren, about the Reapers, the Collectors, the proto-Reaper, everything. And he listened." Garrus snorted, shaking his head. "I don't remember the last time my dad really _listened_ to me. But he did, just like he'd have done back when he was an investigator on the Citadel."

"And he believed you." She didn't make it a question.

"He did more than that. He believed _in_ me. Went to the mat with Primarch Fedorian about it—they were old friends," Garrus continued. "Fedorian wasn't as convinced but in the end I was given a Reaper task force so I'd shut up."

Shepard chuckled, shaking his shoulder gently.

"Yeah. I learned from the best," he elbowed her, "yell loud enough and sooner or later someone will come over to find out what the fuss is about. They might not _do_ anything…but if you call it a 'task force' then it really sounds like you were doing something."

"There'd be higher casualties without you, Garrus."

"I'd like to think that's the case. How bad is it on Earth?"

"Pretty bad. I never thought losing Mindoir would ever come in useful. Earth is the cradle of humanity…but it's not _home_." Mindoir wasn't really 'home' anymore either. Just another world probably burning.

"No, the _Normandy's_ that." Garrus put an arm around Shepard's shoulders.

"You'll come with us. Can't you?"

"Hmph. You asking saves me having to cram myself into a storage crate and stowing away. My knees and elbows thank you." Garrus squeezed Shepard's armored shoulder before retracting his arm.

Shepard's throat locked up. She knew how hard it was to leave a fight, even one that couldn't be won by organic-sized individuals. It was probably harder for Garrus: he still had family, somewhere. Part of her finally found comfort in the loss of her family: she could only lose them once. They were beyond caring about any of this. Concern for their welfare couldn't be used against her.

It was a cold thing to think, but it was also a true thing.

Shepard wasn't sure when she drifted off to sleep. She only knew Garrus slipped away first, a faint snore, not unlike a purr, buzzing in the air.


	87. Lull

Vega woke with a jerk, breaking free of a technicolor hodgepodge of recent and older memory, all of them put in a blender and recombined into a freakish parade of fact and fiction, all colored by his own feelings. For a moment he felt panicky, unsure where he was because it was so different from what he was used to…

That was the backlash of bad dreams, so the panic wore off quickly, leaving him to briefly assess his situation and come back to true consciousness.

It was dark, warm, and quiet in the turian barracks. The air seemed heavy, but there was a sense of security he couldn't help feeling. He'd never found it in any barracks he'd ever occupied before. This was underscored by the fact that turians didn't snore; they sort of buzzed or purred, and quite a few of them were doing it now. The sound was soothing, made the dark seem friendly.

He sat up carefully, reminding himself that he was in a _hammock_ and could fall _out_ of it if he wasn't. The hammock was hung in a little niche in the wall, the area designed to let a turian get in and out easily, whether the niche was near the ground or the third bunk up. He had a little more trouble, not being as leggy, or accustomed to the process, so he didn't try to climb out.

Instead, he picked out familiar faces in the diffuse light coming from beyond the barracks door.

Dr. T'Soni lay asleep in the next bunk over and down. He could see her if he leaned out past his niche's confines, curled up on her side as best she could, one arm cast over her face.

Shepard was easy to find, having a bunk near the door, on the lowest tier. Now, though, she wasn't alone.

She sat in her hammock as though it were a couch, clearly asleep, beside a turian who seemed equally asleep. The way they sat there, sprawling in all directions and leaning all over one another as they slept, made it clear that they were very good, very old friends. This was no sweetheart snuggling; this was exhausted comrades who'd been through too much shit to give a damn what anyone thought about their being a cross-species tangle of limbs.

It was weird to see a human and a turian that comfortable with one another, but he chalked this up to his not having interacted with a whole lot of turians during his military career. Nothing against them: First Contact was a long time ago.

Smirking at this, he rerouted his thoughts. Best not to think 'my team's better than your team' unless it was about something a little more harmless—like actual sports. He didn't know how touchy turians were about all that history.

As far as the turian in question, if he had to guess, this would be the Garrus Vakarian Shepard and her original crewmen had worried about so much since news of Palaven being hit came. It explained why they'd fallen asleep talking, which was what it looked like had happened.

He settled back into his hammock, staring up at the bottom of the niche above his, shifting side to side so the hammock rocked gently. He couldn't get back sleep. He knew he couldn't. He couldn't even _try_ getting back to sleep, because it felt like such a pointless exercise.

He felt fine at the moment, but he knew, deep down, that the minute he tried to rest, he'd be thrown headfirst back into bad memories accented by worse ones.

He wished something would happen, some red alert or crisis that would cut the shuteye short…but it was a half-hearted wish. Glancing back at Shepard, he heard an old memory, something a DI during basic had said:

 _All right, ladies: this is how we do things! When you're told to stand, sit. When you're told to sit, lie down and take a nap. When you're told to eat,_ eat _, because you don't know when the next meal's coming._

He couldn't stand it. Carefully, laboriously, he managed to climb quietly out of his bunk.

Shepard moved when he reached the door. He didn't think she was really awake, even though she opened her eyes and canted her head. "Vega?"

"Be right back," he answered quietly.

She didn't nod, merely exhaled before sinking deeper into sleep.

Vega shivered. He'd heard stories about old soldiers who could sleep with their eyes open and, while he'd never believed it, he thought maybe he'd taken the description 'with their eyes open' a little too literally.

The turians had things balanced to an extent he'd never expect, though he found the rigid regulation of it both reassuring and suffocating. For instance, as far as he and his team were concerned, it was 'night' and time to sleep. As far as half the turians were concerned, this was the middle of the working day; it was as busy now as it was when he'd arrived.

"You lost?" a turian demanded, without hostility but with plain surprised to find a human wandering around. Vega had the suspicion that word had gone around that there _were_ humans around, just so no one got surprised and jumped to any weird conclusions.

He'd have jumped to weird conclusions if _he'd_ been an MP and suddenly found a turian wandering aimlessly around in his underground bunker during a war. Nothing against turians in particular, it just would have been weird. And weird things in wartime made people _nervous_ , and nervous people sometimes did stupid things.

He knew about that firsthand.

"Just looking for the head, man." It was the first thing that came to mind, and thought made it truth.

"Good luck." And, his face pulled into what Vega assumed was a grin, the turian gave him directions.

He hadn't thought about cross-species accommodation difficulties.

But they were all guys, right? Couldn't be _too_ different in that respect…

…right?


	88. Scramble

" _Alert. Alert: topside outpost is under heavy attack. Repeat: topside outpost is under heavy attack. All rapid response teams report to your convergence points."_

Shepard woke at the first sound of the klaxon, used the wall to push herself to some semblance of standing so she could duck out of the hammock's niche. Garrus was right behind her, stiff at attention, waiting for the crisp female voice to give further instruction.

" _Units two, four, and nine: report immediately to the primary access tunnel. Repeat: units two, four and nine report immediately to the primary access tunnel."_

"Vega? Vega!" Shepard called, finding his bunk empty.

"Come on," Garrus grabbed Liara by the arm and towed her into the hall, Shepard trotting to keep up with him.

" _Captain Shepard and unit: please report to the command hub. Repeat, Captain Shepard and unit: please report to the command hub_."

"Shepard!" Vega came swinging out of one of the rooms in the wake of several turians, clearly part of one of the activated units.

"Command hub!" Shepard barked.

"This way." Garrus let go of Liara's arm, led them against the flow of movement to the command hub.

"I'll make this quick," Corinthus said as soon as he saw Shepard. "We found you a Primarch, Adrien Victus. We have a last known location, but their post has just come under heavy attack."

"Damn." Shepard turned to Garrus. "What do you think? Those turian husks bringing _tactics_ to the battlefield?"

"Well, if your people are cannon fodder and the bartarians become heavy-hitters, I'd say it sounds right," Garrus shrugged. "It's definitely new, and they're the first new thing we've seen since."

"Okay. Where's Victus?" Shepard asked.

"I can get you there," Garrus interrupted as the general's talon traced a path on the holomap. "I left that post when I came here to meet up with you. If he's alive, he's either made it back, or moved on. My bet is stayed put."

"We couldn't get a communique to him: I think they're having the same problem with their comm towers that we were having yesterday," Corinthus shook his head.

"Did you get word out about those husks? The ones that play poss—dead?" Shepard asked.

"You should write a book," Corinthus muttered, " _Varieties of Husk_. Yes, we warned them."

"Believe me, I'm considering it," Shepard returned. "We need to move. Let's put down the incursion topside, then we'll move out."

"We'll try to get ahold of Victus. If we do, we'll tell him High Command wants him to stay put. I'll let you tell him why…just in case." Corinthus' upward gaze spoke loudly: _just in case our comms have been compromised._

"Let's go." Shepard and Garrus turned almost as one, the human falling in behind the turian, leaving Liara and Vega to hurry after.

-J-

The outpost overhead was swarming with turians, each taking up positions as husks came in waves from every direction and the turian-things—now being called 'marauders' by the species from which they descended—peppered the ranks with bullets.

For a moment, Shepard wasn't even sure where to go; the frenzy of action, the flurry of movement momentarily made her brain stutter. The turians had procedures and protocols; even when obviously hard-pressed, they seemed to have a solid sense of who needed to do what, who needed to be where.

Her momentary indecision over where she and her team could do the most good ended when a Reaper dropship landed too close to the barrier, the explosion killing the four or five turians on that section of fortification. "Bolster that barricade!" Shepard shouted, pointing with her rifle before hurrying forward, picking off husks as they scrambled into sight.

She gained the barricade and pulled a dead turian off the heavy gun mounted there. She stepped onto its platform, reached for the strap used to secure a gunner in…but found it broken. She didn't know if it was the close proximity of the Reapers' dropship's explosion or if it had been broken long before.

She gritted her teeth, braced herself and took the controls, memory echoing in her head.

 _The damn strap's on there for a reason, Jung! It keeps your ass in the shuttle! Where your ass goes, the rest follows so hook up the damn strap!_

The gun shuddered as it launched heavy slugs into the husk incursion. Her teeth rattled, even though she kept them clamped, and she was sure teacup fractures were forming. Her bones shivered to the elbow with the force of the recoil, and the noise seemed to drown out everything around her.

"Garrus! Vega! Flank me! Liara! A little cover, please!" Shepard shouted, her voice rattling from the gunfire as she triggered a reload. These heavy guns ate through ammunition ridiculously fast.

She remembered the last time she'd used one of these: more accurately she remembered the last time she'd been strapped into one. She hadn't needed it, she'd simply held the position of door gunner.

She couldn't hear anything anyone was saying over the noise of the gunfire, but from time to time she heard Garrus' or Vega's voice rise, clearly bantering back and forth. The gunfire was joined abruptly by a biotic barrage, signaling the arrival of one of the Cabals. Or, when she ventured to look away from the canyon into which the husks kept pouring, part of one. Annaeus stood nearby, bleeding at the nose, but with fiery eyes.

"How're we doing?" Shepard shouted, pausing in her gunfire long enough to reload and catch an answer.

"Incursion's still pushing, but we're holding! If we can wear them away, reports suggest we'll have serious breathing room!" Annaeus shouted back. "Just keep firing!"

"Like I'm gonna stop!" Shepard shouted back, resuming fire in time to shoot several husks from the rocky wall they scaled, their feet slipping on the stone.

" _Spirits_ …"

Shepard took a deep breath: there was no question as to what Annaeus saw. "Guess we know what flipped the shuttle…" she murmured blankly.


	89. Matador

Shepard shouted as the new Reaper creature charged, moving exceptionally fast for its massive size. Without regard for itself, it slammed bodily into the barricade. The durasteel dented; the gun on its swivel flew sharply to one side. Shepard's balance tipped and she found herself flung from the gun to land on the ground, smacking her head soundly.

It would have been worse had she not been wearing her helmet.

She scrambled to her feet, one thought echoing in her mind: _wear the damn safety strap._

The Reaper creature, having recoiled from its charge shook itself, hulking and looking around for an ideal target.

"Shepard!" Liara shouted.

"I'm fine!" she shouted then, in an undertone, "For the moment…" The big brute wouldn't stay staggered for long.

It was hideous, a body that was utterly massive, with claws like some species of crab, a hunching posture that made charging efficient, and a turian-esque head on a stringy, snaky neck. Added to that, it wore a sort of corset of durasteel plates that seemed to be bolted directly to its corroded flesh. Shepard wasn't sure what the base material was, but of everything she'd seen so far, this was the one that bothered her most.

It was too big for one bullet.

She pulled her particle beam free, opened it and planted her feet, hoping she could sidestep the thing if it charged her again.

She didn't wait for it to focus its attention her. She stepped away from the rock and drilled it, right in the shoulder with three-second bursts from her trophy weapon. The brute—which seemed as good a name for its kind as any—bellowed like a hurt krogan and jerked back.

The beam left singed patches on its tough skin, which seemed to require more prolonged contact with the accelerated particles.

 _Whoom_. A biotic pulse, followed by another, sent the Brute staggering back. Liara and Annaeus hit the ground, Annaeus shouting to his cabalists to hold and reinforce the barricade.

Shepard grimaced: one of the major plates forming the barricade had been knocked cockeyed, leaving a gap more than sufficient for a husk or a Marauder to slip through.

"Are your hurt?" Annaeus demanded.

"Not even a little!" Shepard responded, unsure if this was true. Too much adrenaline, too much danger.

Liara, from whom the second pulse had come, sent a Singularity towards the Brute.

"Oh—" Liara's declaration went unfinished as the Singularity had no effect on the Brute except to distract it. It waved one of its great claws through the dark energy, as if testing to see if it were solid. Discovering that it was not, it snorted, then swaggered through it, its snaky neck letting its head sway this way and that as it considered the field and those on it.

With so many people all at once, it seemed to have trouble deciding who to go for first.

Shepard opened fire, this time counting to five. The searing beam made her the primary target. The Brute bellowed and charged her. She and Liara, both in the path of travel, threw themselves to the side, tumbling and coming back to their feet as they slowed.

 _Pk._ Garrus' sniper rifle barked, but the concussive round did nothing more than stagger the Brute.

Annaeus sailed in, his biotics flaring.

"Husks!" Vega shouted.

"They're going to swarm you!" Garrus barked.

"Third Cabal! Engage!" Annaeus bellowed as the Brute charged him. He danced to the side, his biotics flaring, a sending the Brute charging headfirst into the canyon wall. The force dented the rock, send sand crumbling to the ground in a shower. The Brute turned, its bony face showing the marks. "Shepard! You and Garrus give me fire support! I'll keep it thrashing around until you can dole out enough damage to stop it!"

Shepard didn't question Annaeus, but reacted instantly, "Vega! Liara! Get up there with the Third!" Shepard shouted. "Don't argue! Do it!"

It would help clear the field a little, since the Third Cabal had pushed forward into the canyon.

Sweat trickled down Shepard's skin as the Brute howled and took a swing at Annaeus, who dodged back. His biotics flared, a burst of dark energy tipping the creature's balance.

Shepard took a knee for stability and aimed down her particle beam's body. Sizzling yellow light flew to meet the Brute. She didn't have a scope, or precision enough to hit its tiny head, but Garrus might.

"It's too fast! I can't get a bead on its head!" Garrus barked.

"Keep trying!" Shepard roared as Annaeus sidestepped another charge. It was a close brush, she though as she sent the accelerated particles burning into the Brute's back, between its exposed…what were they? Like ribs, only sticking out of its back.

"Any time!" Annaeus called, breathing heavily, unable to look away from the Brute long enough to wipe away the fresh spout of blood from his nose.

Biotic overdraw.

The Brute suddenly turned, ignoring Annaeus and charging Shepard instead. Shepard stood her ground for precious seconds, drilling the thing with her particle beam as it came at her.

At the last second it turned. At full speed, full momentum, it packed on speed.

Shepard shouted out as the Brute sideswiped Annaeus, swinging out one of its monstrous claws and catching him a vicious blow. The Brute's feet slipped and scraped on the ground as it turned itself, raising one heavy claw.

 _Pk._ Garrus' rifle sang out again making the Brute jerk. It flailed for a moment as Shepard opened fire again. The Brute lurched back, as if it were going to fall in that direction.

Garrus plugged one more round into its head but he was seconds too slow. In the span of time it took him to squeeze the trigger, to reach the point of no return, the Brute flung itself forward. The bullet took it in the head, but the damage was done.

The creature fell forward, landing atop Annaeus' prone form.


	90. Soldier On

"No, no no no," Shepard murmured it under her breath, but the words screamed through her head. Nevertheless, she checked the combat situation first, but wasted no time in shouting, "Liara! Get over here! Get it off him!", when she knew the battle was in the defenders' favor.

Liara cried out, realizing what Shepard's words meant. With a heave of biotic power, she managed to hike the Brute high enough that Garrus and Shepard could grab Annaeus by whatever was handy and drag him free.

His light armor was mangled and blood oozed from beneath the mesh underlay, evidence that the Brute had broken through plates and flesh. Annaeus was still alive, but struggling, struggling to breathe, struggling to keep his eyes from rolling back, struggling to reach something on his web gear.

"Look at me, _look at me_ ," Shepard barked, grabbing him by the fringe and tilting his head, mostly to keep him from choking on his own blood. "Don't give the bastard the satisfaction."

He did, but he had trouble fixing on her. He tried to talk and ended up trying to breathe out and swallow at the same time, which sent wracking, wet-sounding coughs through him, electing a high-pitched whine.

Shepard fumbled with her medical kit which Garrus immediately pulled from her gear. He opened it, found a painkiller and pressed the hypo against Annaeus' battered neck. "Shepard…" the look Garrus gave her said it all: without serious medical care all they could down as make the old turian comfortable.

Shepard gritted her teeth, trying to steel herself against the impending loss but not ready to give up the fight to keep the turian's body and soul together.

Annaeus must have known his time was short, for he continued fumbling until he finally freed something from his gear. With fierce effort, flopped a battered hand over, grabbing Shepard's wrist. The grip was weak, evidencing crushed bones somewhere in his arm, and tremors ran through the limb. With his other hand, he forced the handle of his knife into Shepard's, tried to close her fingers around it but only succeeded in dragging his gauntleted talons across her plates. She tightened her fist around fingers and knife, mouth pursed, waiting for the words that had to go with it.

If it was important enough for him to spend his dying moments—and she was sure he was dying—trying to pass it on, it would need words so the human would understand.

"…the…boy…" Annaeus articulated the two words very carefully. "…from…from the…the school…"

"I understand." She understood the task with which she had been entrusted, though not the social significance. There had to be something, because the medic looked from Annaeus to Shepard, pausing for a moment in his work. "I'll make sure he gets it. What do I tell him?"

Annaeus swallowed as Shepard took the knife from his hand, but did not relinquish her grip on his fingers. His eyes began to grow cloudy, their protective mucosal film thickening, showing Shepard what Grunt had meant when he mentioned a turian's eyes having 'gone black.'

"Hey, _hey_! You turian bastard, wake up," she shook him violently. His eyes flickered, but did not clear. "Stay with me!" Shepard looked to Garrus who shook his head, looking stricken.

"Shepard…I can't. _You_ can't. Just-just let him go. Quietly. Trust me."

Shepard gritted her teeth, hating herself as she yielded to Garrus' declaration.

Annaeus' birdlike digits closed tightly around hers for a second, but the transfer of the weapon seemed to have relieved Annaeus of all reasons to struggle against the inevitable. A soft hiss, which might have been 'shhh' slipped from his mouth. He closed his eyes, breathing ragged and choked…and in moments the breathing went shallow, then stopped.

The fingers went lax and flaccid in Shepard's grip.

Garrus gently reached over to check Annaeus pulse, then shook his head. "He's gone." Garrus' mandibles drew close to his chin. "May the place your spirit chooses grow strong because of you," Garrus murmured, touching Annaeus' forehead with his palm.

Rest in peace, Shepard thought, Annaeus Vyrrnus.

Shepard looked at the knife in her hand. It was an alien weapon to her, the curved blade meant to protrude from between a turian's two fingers: a talon in fact as well as in name. She thrust the weapon into her web gear, where it fit awkwardly, swallowed hard, and stood up.

Garrus' prayer or blessing or whatever turians would call it was softly echoed. She hadn't heard the rest of the Third Cabal come up behind them.

"We'll take his body," one of the cabalists, a female whose hood was now almost in shreds, declared. She knelt, touching the old turian's brow, then looked up at Shepard. For a moment she seemed to teeter on saying something bracing, by turian standards, but she changed her mind at the last minute. "You have a war to fight. He wouldn't appreciate you wasting time over his body. Not when he's done with it."

Shepard nodded stolidly, then got to her feet, aware of the blue blood covering her hands, sticky on the mesh. "You're right. Let's go." Her voice came out low, but she found that the necessity of finding Victus helped push the grief out of the way.

She could grieve later…and it seemed strange to her to feel Annaeus' loss so keenly when she'd barely known him. "Garrus, show us how to get to the outpost where you saw Victus. We need to get moving."

Garrus jerked his head and started off, Shepard falling in at his shoulder. As they trotted along, he raised a taloned hand to rest on her shoulder.

"I'm okay…I just…been sidelined too long. It's…"

Garrus' grip increased in silent reassurance.

Shepard nodded, took a deep breath, and forced herself to focus on the objective. Annaeus was just the first of many losses, she reminded herself, and of many more if she failed. She couldn't stop. She couldn't slow down.


	91. Give Hell

War ran in the Victus family blood, but even Adrien Victus had to admit that nothing in his people's long history, in his family's illustrious history, compared with the kind of war he was seeing now. It was a conflict, but he almost found it hard to call it a war—the real enemy was unassailable by most of the turian forces. The shock troops lived up to their name: turians turned against their brethren had hit a sore spot with his troops.

Hell, it had hit a sore spot with him.

The enemy had no shortage of troops while his own dwindled. They put up a fight, a courageous fight, but they were still falling.

Already they'd discovered, the hard way, about some of the hidden properties of these humanoid creatures—'husks', according to Vakarian.

Speaking of whom…he wondered if the young advisor had managed to reach safety after drawing off that heavy Reaper unit.

Well, he'd _thought_ it was a heavy unit at the time: now he knew better. The massive beasts tearing around like injured, bloodraging krogan were definitely 'heavy units.' They could overturn a topside shelter in a few charges, they could flip downed shuttles, tear them open so that husks could climb in and chew on whoever was unlucky enough to be inside.

And while the Marauders, the increasingly popular name for the turian creatures, had started out with scavenged weapons, by now they were wielding altered ones—altered weapons with altered ammunition that had ugly effects if they became lodged in a turian body.

He'd wondered more than once whether they were somehow levo-amino based, or somehow 'tainted' with something similar. They worked that fast and that grotesquely. They'd have to resort to simply putting fellows out of their misery soon…

He remembered the Relay-314 Incident, finding bodies of his fellow turians, starved corpses or worse. Those who had been injured, then force-fed or tube-fed, the humans completely ignorant of the physiological incompatibility.

It was only after many years that he could admit that those terrible deaths were the result of ignorance—most of them, anyway—and not intent.

He regarded the camp, temporarily quiet but braced for another assault. They'd had to collapse this entrance to the underground base, would need to move to the next outpost to get down into it. But they were pinned. Leaving their fortifications was not an option and, while heavy weapons were good for dealing with the big brutes, the weapons were in short supply while the creatures were not.

He knew there was a small cache of heavy weapons on the other side of the camp, but getting there would be difficult—even those men closest to it were having trouble getting out of their fortifications. It seemed like any time a turian so much as stuck his nose out of his hiding place or from behind his rock or what have you, the Reapers immediately began peppering the camp with more shock troops.

He wondered if it was this bad all over…then looked up at Palaven and the massive, incalculably large fires burning across the surface, orange flares and pockmarks evidencing too clearly that it was bad all over.

Worst all over.

 _Worst_ all over.

He'd been skeptical about these 'Reapers,' but would happily accept an 'I told you so' at this point.

"General Victus!" One of his men shouted, voice thin because of the distance. Why hadn't the man used the helmet-to-helmet radio? Victus checked his, found that it still worked. Maybe the other soldier's radio had failed. They needed a tech to look at it…but given their ability to get the tech _to_ the place, he'd have to rely on shouted communications for the time being.

Dammit.

"I hear you!" he called back.

"I just got a communiqué from General Corinthus' outpost! They say hold position, party incoming! They need to speak with you!"

"He say who? Or, better yet, when they're getting here?" he demanded. With comms so patchy, the outpost could have been trying for hours…

"Left his base a couple hours ago, on foot! That's all I got before comms cut out! I think those things got our tower!" Which meant the six-man detachment dug in around it was dead.

 _Damn_ these Reapers. What he wouldn't give to be able to engage them like a normal enemy…

"Then we'll just have to hold," he growled to himself.

Under ideal conditions, he could expect them in another hour. In these conditions though…

He couldn't keep his men here indefinitely. That was ridiculous. What he _could_ do was give this unit some time, a reasonable amount of time. But with the Reapers living up to their name in a way that shocked even him…no, he wasn't going to waste his men indefinitely.

He toggled his radio, announced to anyone listening, "We'll hold! Give them time to catch up! But if they're not here in two hours, we pull out! Pass the word!" He passed the word himself, shouting to the communications officer who'd intercepted Corinthus' message.

Two hours. He could feel his men's morale slip at that…but knew it also lifted a little, knowing when they could give up this now-useless patch of dirt.

If the incoming unit made it to this location, maybe they would be able to get out of their entrenchments and move. He'd never felt as trapped as he did now.

Time ticked slowly, the Reapers sent several scout parties…but nothing serious.

Then, "Sir! Another bombardment incoming!"

"We've got a small unit inbound!" another relayed, this time through his radio. "Four man team, I think I recognize Vakarian!"

That was probably why the Reapers had returned to the assault—they saw reinforcements. "Get ready, boys!" Victus roared. "It's gonna get ugly!" This was it. Make or break. "Let's give them hell!"

He hoped the motivational shouting helped, but if it didn't…well, getting un-pinned for a final push might just solve all their current difficulties.

One way or another.


	92. Erosion

Shepard felt like she was battering her way into the compound. Whether the Reapers knew they had a person of interest here or if it was because this group drew a short straw, she didn't know. It didn't matter. She'd said it herself: no one was taking this Primarch from her. She hadn't run, fought, and blasted her way here just to find a dead body.

Hence the extra vigor she applied. She could feel her body beginning to rebel, but it could rebel _later_. Mind over matter. If biotics could apply the concept, she could…though perhaps not in the same way.

The Reapers started the assault by dropping troops on her team's position, then by dropping more at the other end of the compound. Mostly husks, but with enough Marauders—she'd accepted the turian title for their own brand of husk—and enough Cannibals to augment the now-familiar cannon fodder.

The outpost was shattered, many of the fortifications turned over, rock formations forcibly shattered—she recognized what had done the damage—and a crater not far away that suggested, to her, that an underground bunker had collapsed one of their intersections to prevent a security breech. Which meant that the men up here were either volunteers or had been pushed here from other positions only to find a locked door to safety.

Everywhere, corpses of turians and Reaper ground troops alike lay scattered. Several Brutes lay dead, most of them showing signs of heavy weapon fire.

At her team's approach, as the Reaper dropships came pouring down, turians began swarming out of their fortifications. She recognized a last push when she saw one, and wondered how long they'd been pinned here…or held by orders 'wait for Shepard.'

Assuming the order got through.

Their group had the benefit of a biotic present: Liara did her best to keep the husks out of arms' reach, while Shepard and Vega pressed forward, shotguns alternating. They weren't exactly mowing down the enemy, but they were pushing forward, and that was all that mattered.

"Shepard! There's a heavy weapons cache near here! I've got Victus on the line! He says heavy reinforcements on his side of the compound! You'll need the extra firepower! I'm working on getting a navpoint!" Garrus shouted.

"Work fast!" Shepard shouted as Liara gave a grunt and sent a particularly enterprising husk, who'd tried to flank them, flying to one side. "How're you holding up?" she demanded of Liara.

"Fine!" Liara responded, her voice rough and raspy.

Shepard didn't question the answer. Even if Liara wasn't fine, there wasn't much they could do except push forward. But they'd finally gained the compound itself, could see the open space, the door that led to the now-collapsed tunnel of the underground bunker. They'd passed the ruined comm tower, surrounded by gnawed corpses, the machinery too damaged for Shepard or Garrus—or both together—to rewire back to functionality.

"Got it!" Garrus shouted. "We need to veer right! By that bunker!"

He might have pointed it out, but Shepard didn't see the gesture. Her eyes were too busy keeping track of husks. "Garrus! You worry about the cache! Vega and I'll do what we can! But if we let up, we get swarmed!"

"Got it!"

Another rifle was good for dealing with swarming husks but, without the third gun, Garrus' tech mines were the next best thing, often enough to stagger them. He took off at a trot, strafing to the right, tossing tech mines as he went, buying Shepard and Vega time to make serious inroads into the oncoming swarm.

He came into Shepard's perceptual range, his rifle in his hands, battering husks in the face or shooting them at short range as he made his way to the weapons cache. The husks seemed more interested in Vega, Liara and Shepard. Shepard suspected this had to do with the amount of damage the three of them were putting out, but she accepted she could be wrong.

Husks didn't think, but Reapers did. Who knew how and to what extent Reapers directed and controlled their minions?

She personally felt that they left the Marauders a little more latitude since they, at least, had _tactics_.

"Got it!" Garrus shouted.

Shepard checked his position. "Veer right! Let's re-org as best we can!"

The fortification's crew was dead, so Shepard's unit did what any good soldier would in such a case: ammunition and thermal clips served no one in the hands of dead men. In the hands of the living, they might buy more lives.

"One-shot, one kill!" Garrus thrust a weapon to Liara. "Rapid-fire for Shepard…another for Vega…"

Shepard and Vega took the weapons, Vega hesitating over his, Shepard checked hers for readiness, then swapped with Vega. "Just point and hold the trigger!" she barked, replacing her weapon's heat sink.

"There!" Liara barked. Uncomfortably, she pointed her weapon towards the Brute that had just blundered into view.

Her hesitancy reduced her accuracy; the shot fell short, kicking up dirt and shards of rock. Her apologetic curse went unnoticed. "Take it down!" Shepard shouted to Vega before stepping forward, bracing her feet, and opening fire at the shape already appearing through the haze of dust.

"Got another one!" Vega called.

"Garrus! You playing with your toes or what?" Shepard demanded a second before a resonant _boom_ battered her eardrums. Garrus' ordinance, unlike Liara's, slammed squarely into the Brute's chest, knocking it back and cracking its armor like an egg.

With the heavy reinforcements being culled, the turians began to gain ground and, although husks continued trying to swarm both sides, they found less and less success until, finally, only a few stragglers remained.

Finally, Shepard and Victus came face to face in the middle of the compound.

"I need to get my men to cover," Victus declared briskly.

"Take your men, take point. Vega, Liara, you're in the rear. Garrus, up with me. Let's go."

"Indeed," Victus agreed before beginning to bark orders to his troops.


	93. Hold Together

The two units, Victus and his men, Shepard and her team, all dropped to sit in the floor the instant they were safely through the airlocks and d-con chambers of the nearest underground bunker. Now that they were out of the field, the strain and weariness became apparent. No one bothered trying to hide it.

"Thanks for the assist," Victus announced.

"No problem," Shepard answered, her throat constricted, a combination of exercise and Menae's thin atmosphere. With the exception of Garrus, the team had all switched to their oxygen tanks for the last half mile or so. She forced herself to standing. "General, I need to speak with you and Garrus privately. It's important."

"I don't doubt it," Victus grunted, pushing himself to his feet. He motioned her to follow, turned them into an empty hallway, within call of their teams but out of earshot if they kept their voices down.

"I'm Captain Shepard, Special Tactics and Reconnaissance."

"Yes," Victus nodded, "I know who you are." He looked her up and down, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "And I'm more than a little curious as to why you're here."

Shepard considered for a moment how to break the news, then decided to tell him have it in one swing. "I came here to fetch the turian Primarch for a war summit. That title now falls to you."

Victus blinked at her several times as the news penetrated his numbing, battle-filled brain. "I'm Primarch…of Palaven…?"

"Afraid so," Shepard sighed.

"…negotiating for the Turian Hierarchy?"

Shepard heard the unease and distaste creeping into his voice. "That's about the whole of it."

Victus scowled at her. "I'm no diplomat. I hate diplomats."

"That makes two of us on both counts. But right now war is the resume in demand. You can't win a war without someone who understands the kind of hell it is." And, she added silently, she wasn't sure the asari preference for consensus was going to help.

Turians and humans, though…it did look like the Reapers wanted to cull out those superpowers who would give the staunchest resistance.

"That's true," Victus rumbled. He shook his head slowly. "Let me say goodbye to my troops, get them organized, then I'll," his voice hitched, but he pressed on, "I'll go with you. Attend this summit."

"Right. I'll wait here." Shepard turned, cued her radio. "Cortez? You there?"

" _Ready and waiting, Captain._ "

"Good. Get ready to come get us. We've got the Primarch."

" _Glad to hear it. I'll be waiting for your all-clear and a navpoint._ "

"See you soon." Shepard disconnected, looked over at Garrus, whose face was drawn into lines of deep concern. "What's up?"

Garrus shook his head. "Do you really think this summit will do anything but waste precious time?"

"I don't know, Garrus. But we've got to try it. And I get the feeling the Primarch won't need to yell to get people to listen to him."

"Been doing a lot of that lately?" Garrus asked sardonically.

Shepard chuckled. "I lost my temper with the Council. Shouted at them then stormed out."

"Damn. With I could have been there for _that_."

Shepard elbowed the turian gently. "You can probably find it all over the extranet if you look. I can't believe it went unrecorded. It was counterproductive as hell…"

"But if felt pretty good at the time," Garrus finished.

"Yeah." Shepard reached into her web gear, pulled out a ration bar, then walked back to the hallway where her unit was. When she saw them already nibbling on ration bars she withdrew, pulled the foil open and began chewing on the moisture-sapping nutrient compound.

She'd forgotten how bad the ration bars were, particularly when compared with field rations proper. She powered through the compound, knowing her body needed the extra caloric intake, knowing that even if she didn't feel hungry, stress and exertion required a replenishment of resources.

-J-

A weary Adrien Victus rejoined Shepard and Vakarian in due time. His goodbye and delegations of duty were short, partly because his men were few. The idea of leaving the fight chafed him and weakened their morale…but Shepard was right. She needed a Primarch and he couldn't simply pass the responsibility to someone else.

He wished heartily that he could, but if wishes meant anything the Reapers would withdraw. So far…they hadn't. In fact, they kept gaining ground. So he kept his wishes to himself and yielded to the inevitable.

"All right, Captain," Victus announced, reappearing with a rucksack slung across his shoulders. "I'm ready when you are." The looks on his men's faces, their features remain neutral but a light dimming in their eyes, still bothered him. He knew they would hold together. They were turian, they didn't know how to do anything else…

…but it still troubled him.

"I'm officially requesting transfer to Shepard's posting, Primarch," Garrus declared.

Victus eyed him, his mandibles waving. Garrus had a reputation for being loose with accepted methods himself, and now Victus could see it. The man wasn't really asking for permission. He could do the most good if he stuck with Shepard, so with Shepard he would stick. Full stop.

"I don't suppose my saying 'no' will really mean anything?"

Garrus shrugged as though to say 'well, you could _try_ it, I suppose.'

Shepard wordlessly reached up and hooked a hand on the turian's shoulder, her fleshy face drawn into a look of mixed relief and gratitude. Garrus reached an arm to return the gesture.

It was her _'I really need your help right now_ ' to his ' _I'm here for you. No matter what._ '

He'd fought in the Relay-314 Incident. The war was over, the Hierarchy took the stance that turians and humans were allies. He'd followed this line because it was his duty. He'd learned to accept certain things over the years.

But he had never expected to see such steadfast solidarity between their two races. It was strange to look at a human and see something of his own people reflected there.


	94. First Impressions

Adrien Victus had heard of the Normandy, knew about her cooperative origins, but he'd never actually seen her. Not in person. Not from the inside. To say he was not curious would be a lie.

He climbed out of the shuttle into the cargo bay and frowned. It was a nice big space, housing two shuttles, a rec station, the mission prep area and…he frowned as the little Fenris mech padded around the bay, wagging its stump tail and investigating him with its scanning array.

"Sophie." Shepard's voice was imperative, but not unkind, as she climbed out of the shuttle.

The 'dog' wagged its tail, then set about its mindless wandering.

"The tech who owned her wasn't aboard when we left. Got a letter from her: she wouldn't ask us to go out of our way to bring the mech back…so she's with us now." Shepard didn't sound sure how to feel about this, but accepted it philosophically.

Maybe she'd had this series of mech shooting at her before; it _was_ an attack model, after all.

"Garrus, can I set you up in engineering again? Both of you," she corrected herself.

"Engineering is good. It's quiet. Shepard doesn't like drama near her drive core," Garrus put forward, more for Victus' sake than Shepard's.

"Sounds good," Shepard nodded. "Let's get you gentlemen settled in. This way." Shepard led them both to the elevator, curing her radio as she went. "Joker, get us to the relay, we'll be pulling out soon."

"Glad the Alliance moved the prep station," Garrus noted, shifting his shoulders under his newly-appropriated rucksack's straps.

Victus had insisted that, if they were going to spend any amount of time on a human ship, they needed to make their own arrangements. It would be imprudent to trust a levo-centric ship to be prepared for dextro visitors. Garrus was sure that, if Shepard _knew_ she was taking on dextro passenger she would make arrangements, but Victus did not feel like leaving it to chance. It was not a slight on Shepard, merely the understanding that when one was in her position small details might get lost in light of larger concerns.

Like getting past a Reaper blockade unnoticed, or fighting her way across half a moon's surface. If their positions had been reversed…

"It was in such a weird place last time," Garrus finished.

"Tell me about it," Shepard sighed as the elevator stopped. "This is Engineering," she led them through a door and down a stairwell, "I suspect you both brought those mobile hammock rigs?"

"Good guess," Garrus chuckled as Victus nodded once.

"Thought so. It'll be easier to set them up here than in the barracks. If he'd like a tour, can you show the Primarch around?" Shepard asked Garrus.

"Shepard, if you need to make your reports, go make them," Garrus encouraged.

"The Councilor will be glad to know you're alive, Primarch. We'll head for the Citadel as soon as possible. Garrus, I'll have EDI get your security clearances in order." That said, Shepard did not wait, merely gave both men a nod and strode out.

Victus looked around the belly of engineering, then slipped his pack off his shoulders, grunting as the weight vanished. Shepard was right, it was quiet, except for the dull hum of the drive core, a somnolent purr that vibrated pleasantly in his sinuses.

Suddenly, now that he was away from Menae, with the steady hum of the core, the thicker atmosphere, he felt old. Old and exhausted. He sat down in his mobile bunk and fished out a ration bar, which he nibbled slowly. "You served with Shepard before?" He already knew the answer, but it was the best way to open this line of conversation.

"I have," Garrus answered neutrally.

Too neutrally—Garrus was nothing of not easy to read. He was expecting a fight, to have to jump up and defend his comrade. "What kind of soldier is she?"

"The _best_ ," came the slightly more acidic answer. "And in case this is going where I think it's going—where these conversations _usually_ go—she _used_ them. And then made off with their ship, most of their crew, and a few other things. Quite the parting blow." Garrus scowled at him, mandibles drawn mutinously against his jaw.

Victus shrugged. What had he said? Transparent. He expected Garrus to jump to Shepard's defense and damn if he hadn't gotten it.

He'd heard rumors about Shepard's prior affiliations, but ten minutes of talking to the woman herself, of watching the way she and Garrus interacted, told him plainly that there was not a human-supremacist cell in her body. Garrus staunch defense simply reinforced what his own observations told him.

Outside of a human-turian war, she could no more turn on Garrus—and, by extension, his people—than she could turn on herself.

Soul mates. Though he understood, vaguely, that the human concept was quite different from the turian concept. Nevertheless, that was what he saw: two sides of the same soul.

It wasn't something he expected to see during his lifetime.

"So, tell me about this remarkable ship," Victus declared, crumpling the wrapper of his ration bar and freeing his canteen. Ration bars always left his tongue feeling thickly coated and the rest of his mouth uncomfortably dry. From what he understood, levo-based ration bars had the same effect on humans and asari.

Garrus brightened immediately. "She's a technological marvel. But you have to _see_ her to appreciate it."

Garrus would have said more, except that the ship's lights suddenly flickered, then the entire vessel pitched, the lights going out, the engine cutting out, before everything resumed again, flickering madly.

Victus reached own hurriedly, activating the gravlocks in his boots, just in case the ship lost gravity.

"EDI?" Garrus demanded. Then, when no answer came, "EDI! Are you okay?" This time there was concern in his tone. Victus wasn't sure who 'EDI' was, but he followed Garrus when he charged up the stairs.


	95. Unexpected

" _Shepard_." The turian Councilor, Quentius, looked tense, his expression fixed, mandibles drawn to his chin.

"Councilor. I'm sorry to say that Primarch Fedorian is dead." She watched the Councilor's posture sag a little. "But we do have Primarch Victus on the Normandy, and are bringing him to the Citadel. We'll be hitting the relay in minutes."

" _That's…some good news,"_ Quentius said slowly. Then, after a long moment, " _How bad is it, Shepard? Honestly._ "

"You can't quantify 'bad' on a relative scale anymore, Councilor," Shepard said gently, "At this point it's either bad or it's not." When Quentius remained silent, frowning at her, "You don't appreciate how bad it really is until you've got boots on the ground, sir. Maybe Prima—" Shepard jumped as the connection sputtered.

" _Shepard? Shepard, are you still there_?" Quentius demanded, voice spiking sharply.

"Yes, I'm still—" All the lights went out, the line severed. Then the systems all came back online, but stuttered. "EDI? EDI! Report!" Shepard barked.

" _Shepard! Something's wrong with EDI!_ " Joker shouted into his end of the radio system.

"Yeah, I'd noticed!" Shepard barked, reaching for her gavlocks—just in case. The ship lurched, making her glad for the forethought. "The hell's going on up there? Are we under attack?" She fought her way forward, through the command hum, through the conference room, through the inactive bioscanner. "Stay put!" she barked as she went.

" _No, we're still good—but it's like the Normandy's possessed—shields are fluxing, she's powering up weapons—I can't raise EDI!_ "

And that, Shepard realized, disturbed him more than the Normandy acing 'possessed.' "Joker! Gimme the all-call!"

" _It's yours!_ "

"All hands! Keep to your posts!" Shepard barked as the ship rocked again.

" _Shepard, all the stuff seems to be originating at the AI core! You'd better get down there!"_

"Adams!" Shepard had to trust she still had the all-call, "Get up to the AI core!"

"S _hepard, we just lost—no, no it's back up…dammit EDI, talk to me!_ " Joker shouted in Shepard's radio. Shepard toyed, for a moment, with shutting the damn thing off, but she didn't. Better to have Joker yelling in her ear than risk missing something important.

She punched in the CO's override code to bring the elevator immediately to her, found Victus and Garrus already in it—Garrus still carrying his rifle.

"What's the matter?" Garrus demanded.

"No idea! Come cover me!" Shepard pushed out of the elevator to find the mess deck deserted, but the medbay full. Adams and one of his conscripted minions stood outside the AI Core, backed by a nervous looking Dr. Chakwas.

"Joker! The Core is in lockdown. Why?"

" _Seems to be a fire or something…or the fire system is deploying…you'll have to shut it off manually. Can you get in?_ "

"Stand back! Garrus, be ready to open fire. I swear, if that thing hurt EDI _or_ my ship…" she snarled. She waved her omnitool, using her override again. The door hissed open, venting smoke and steam. She stepped in cautiously, relying on her shields to stop the Cerberus machine, if that was what had caused the problem. "EDI? EDI, it's Shepard. Talk to me."

Click. Click. Shepard tensed, cued her omniblade, held it ready to deploy, just in case…

Out of the swirling haze, hands held where they could be plainly seen, swayed the body of the Cerberus machine. A body that was now clean, repaired, and moving without haste. "Is there something in particular you wish to discuss, Shepard?" the mech asked.

Shepard lowered her omnitool a fraction of an inch. "EDI?"

The mech cocked its head, then nodded. "Yes. One moment…" the mech looked up. The fire containment measures ceased deployment.

" _Shepard?_ " Joker demanded. " _Shepard, systems are running normal again. Did you fix it?_ "

"It's fixed…I think…" she trailed off.

" _You_ _think_ _? What do you mean you_ _think_?" Joked demanded.

" _It is all right, Jeff,"_ EDI announced over the radios.

" _EDI! Are you okay?_ "

" _I am fine, and will discuss it with you shortly._ "

"EDI…that's Dr. Eva's body," Shepard said blankly.

" _Was_ her body," EDI corrected. "Now it is mine." She looked at the palms of her hands, then the backs of them and twiddled her fingers.

"How?"

EDI returned her full attention to Shepard. "While I was mining the data it recovered from the Archive, I deemed it possible to…repurpose…it. The transition was not seamless."

"But you're okay?" Shepard demanded.

"Quite."

"Okay…that's good. So what happened? With the ship, and the fire…?" Shepard took a deep breath.

"The background process I used for the data mine eventually triggered a trap. A backup power source and CPU activated. The unit attempted physical confrontation. Hence," EDI waved vaguely, the gesture going on too long, exposing her newness to the gesture, "the fire. It…struggled…but I was successful." She stopped waving her arm, frowned at it, then seemed unsure of what to do with her arms until she crossed then, much as Shepard was crossing hers.

"EDI, you need to _alert_ us about incidents like this!" Shepard said, relieved that no harm had come to the AI, and not just because of the Normandy's wellbeing.

"Organic responses would have been limited by reaction time."

Shepard took a deep breath. "Thank you, gentlemen. Dismissed. Garrus, Primarch." She nodded, watched Garrus tug Victus away. "You scared the hell out of us, EDI."

"I appreciate your concern, but it is unnecessary. I now have full control over this unit. There will be no further…incidents," EDI responded.

"Good. So…this is a mobile platform? You're still primarily here?" she motioned to the AI Core, trying desperately to slow her thoughts to one per second. She was not angry and she hoped that it showed that she was just shaken up by the sudden paroxysms of the ship—which were, by extension, paroxysms on EDI's part.

"I exist primarily within the Normandy. For maximum efficiency this unit should remain within the Normandy's broadcast or tightbeam range."

"Wait…are you planning to _take_ that body somewhere?"

-J-

Special thanks to Mai-Danishgirl for bringing a confusing typo to my attention.


	96. Femme Fatale

EDI studied Shepard closely as the Captain opened her eyes wide. The Captain's vital signs were off the charts, her hardsuit recording elevated heart rate and adrenaline levels. It did not match the emotional profile for 'anger.' The closest equivalent was the [Shepard: post_threat_crew_wellbeing] profile.

"Wait…are you planning to _take_ that body somewhere?" Shepard demanded.

"Normandy's weaponry is not suited to every combat situation. This platform could provide limited-fire ground support."

Shepard's vital signs began dropping, which was (qualitative assessment data return: Capt. Shepard's health as a secondary priority. Variable equals positive reaction) good. "You want…to come with us?"

"Correct. This body could accompany you to areas the _Normandy_ cannot reach." EDI watched as the Captain seemed to absorb all the new information.

"Okay…EDI, before we talk about combat or field trips, I need to know that that… _thing_ doesn't have any more surprises. For _either_ of us."

(Observation logged: Shepard: crew_concern equals positive.) EDI frowned as she started the battery of tests Shepard required. Should there be…positive feedback associated with concern for her wellbeing? Organics sometimes swung between positive and negative reactions. She _could_ alter her programming, just a little, but wasn't sure she _should_ …

"I can run the diagnostics now. Please wait."

Shepard crossed her arms, cocked her head, her brows knitting together. (Expression match: Shepard: thoughtful-neutral.)

(Tests returned: negative across the board.)

"Complete. I have run all possible diagnostics. There will be no further surprises from this body. I can forward the results to your terminal, if you like," EDI offered.

"No, that's okay. As long as you're sure," Shepard answered, shaking her head.

"I am quite certain. My first step, now, should be restoring functionality to the Normandy, to assure the crew that all is normal."

"Just…don't be surprised if they're a little…surprised…about your new body. It's been one of those days," Shepard sighed. Then she chuckled, running her hand their her hair. "I hope you have fun with it."

"I am compiling a database of the positive and negative attributes of this body and its performance. I will keep you apprised," EDI offered.

Shepard's smile was (Shepard: amusement-wry). "Okay. Thanks EDI."

The servos and mechanics in her face shivered as her mouth curved into a slight smile. After the too-long waving of her hand in imitation of a nervous gesture earlier, she intended to proceed with mimicking body language and facial cues slowly. She only needed time and perhaps some privacy so she could examine the body's response to the facial arrangement she wanted to express.

"I will take this body to the bridge. Joker will also want to see it."

(Feedback response: positive. Recording stimulus freezeframe to DatabaseEDI, save profile as 'EDI: misc-positive.)

"Ah, EDI, one more thing before you head on up to the bridge," Shepard held up a hand to stop her.

EDI studied Shepard's expression as Shepard frowned at the mobile platform. She waited for the Captain to continue, her folded her hands behind her back. "What is it, Shepard?"

"Get down to the cargo hold and grab one of the supply kits, find a uniform that mostly fits. Don't worry about the tags or rank or anything like that."

EDI processed for a moment. "This has to do with human nudity taboos?"

Shepard smiled as if at an inner joke. "Close enough. Humor me."

"Of course, Shepard. I am concerned, however, that the crew will not take well to my adopting their style of dress. I am not a member of the Alliance." It was her understanding that, except in unusual circumstances, many servicemen took offense to non-personnel adopting the fashion.

"The _Normandy_ is supposedly an Alliance ship. I don't think anyone will complain."

She suspected some subtext that another organic might recognize, to which she remained blind. She would have to make adjustments. This was an infiltration unit; how was she supposed to 'blend in' if she lost subtext?

Experience was all she needed, she decided. Experience and semi-predictable outcomes. She could get those from the crew, particularly Shepard, Garrus, and Dr. Chakwas, as she had reference profiles built for them already. "I will do that, then, before going up to the bridge."

"Okay. Can you re-connect me to the turian Councilor? I'll bet he's having kittens."

"I find that prospect exceedingly low, given turian biology," EDI responded.

(Shepard: amusement-genuine). "It's just an expression EDI. Can you get him on the line?"

"Of course. I will establish the connection as you arrive at the war room," EDI answered.

"Thanks." Shepard turned and strode out, the door to the AI Core hissing shut behind her.

EDI looked around, took a few steps, switched to her various shipboard cameras. There was a sensation she could not describe when changing her focus between her shipboard processes and the mobile platform's limited-resource processors.

From the Elevator camera, EDI watched Shepard to take a deep breath and give a laugh. " _Never a dull moment…_ " She did not sound negatively affected.

EDI took another opportunity to look at her hands, her feet, to frown at her chest. Surely there was no need for such dramatic curvature there. She understood the function on mammals such as humans and asari, but for this unit to blend in efficiently, perhaps a less…buxom…frame would have been preferable.

After all, didn't she have extensive logs of negative comments about Operative Lawson's 'generous attributes?'

She shook her head in imitation of human dismissal. Perhaps there was a contextual attribute of which she remained unaware. After all, the primary demographic for such expression was female.

She walked forward, feeling the shift and flow of the mechanisms that allowed her to both walk and balance. The change with every increment of motion needed for 'walking' produced a slight positive feedback.

Dr. Chakwas spun in her chair when the door hissed open, her eyebrows arching. She did not give voice to her (Chakwas: surprise-genuine). "Hello, EDI," came the (Chakwas: nervous) declaration.

"Hello, Doctor." EDI knew her manufactured smile was appropriate: Dr. Chakwas relaxed in response.


	97. Venn Diagram

EDI knelt, opened one of the supply boxes marked with the human symbol for 'female', and began taking things out. Hairbrush—she didn't need a hairbrush. Reaching up, she touched her hair, felt it shiver from its solid state into individual strands. She ran her fingers through the strands, then gave her head a shake. Her hair re-solidified. It was easier to manage that way, and provided a tactical advantage.

Toothbrush (and toothpaste). She didn't need to eat, though she thought it might be interesting to sit in the mess hall and be _among_ the conversations, as opposed to listening in on them through her audio arrays. To be able to…interact.

She looked at her fingers, then returned to the box.

The next two articles she set aside: they were not pertinent in the least. Not to her.

Deodorant. Again, not pertinent. Not being able to 'smell' the way humans did, there was no point in seeing what the 'flavor' was. All she would get back was a list of ingredients, active and inactive. She could just as easily read the label…though that wouldn't give her chemical composition.

Socks. Socks for feet…but those wouldn't fit, because the body's feet were…misshapen, compared to human feet. Permanent high heels—EDI wondered about this. If she thought about it, it was a tactical mistake: it narrowed the base upon which the body rested…perhaps that explained the superb balance and agility.

Underclothes. EDI had to think about this, then put them on: empirical data was necessary, even if the garments weren't. She was glad, after her own fashion, that no one else was present the first time she tried to stand up. Not being used to a human-like shape was one thing…but the body was simply top-heavy. But that was soon overcome. If human females could learn, she could.

Shirt—it fit a little snug in some places, a little loose in others, but it did fit. She ran a hand along it, bringing up the materials and percentages that defined the garment.

Trousers, with big pockets. These fit a little snug as well, but she suspected that anything she tried to wear might prove somewhat ill-fitting. It was a pity Miranda Lawson was no longer part of the crew: she would have been someone of whom to ask advice.

Utility belt. EDI decided _not_ to wear it. The intent of the exercise was to follow human standards of dress, respect nudity taboos, not to imitate an Alliance soldier. She liked that Shepard had extended the courtesy of counting her among the Alliance servicemen.

(Positive feedback.) They had come a long way from Shepard wanting to carve her out of the Normandy like a malignant tumor.

Shampoo: her 'hair' did not require it, though she considered for a moment, wondering if it would be possible to 'tint' the material comprising her 'hair.' If so, what color? Humans seemed to have a bias towards blonde. But the opposite end of the spectrum—black—was popular as well.

It was something to consider, later. She did not need to sleep like organics, so she effectively was the entire night shift. Shepard hadn't liked that idea, but the Captain was not stupid: there simply weren't enough crewmen to staff three full shifts. So EDI took one and the organics all served one shift, the start and end times being staggered to extend the workforce—though most of the crew were on alert for the other eight, just in case they needed to run back to their stations. Life on the Normandy was, according to EDI's experience, always in a state of flux: things happened in swarms, then they didn't, then they did. There was no rhyme or reason.

Hat. EDI examined it, referenced her personal compilations about the crew. The wearing of hats seemed rather inconsistent. Shepard never wore a hat, unless she was in uniform and not on the ship. EDI cross-referenced this behavior, turned it up as 'normal.' The Citadel apparently made defining 'outdoors' difficult, since it was a space station, so the adherence to the wearing of 'covers' was fifty-fifty.

Shoes. Again, her feet were the wrong shape. Besides: she did not have soft feet as humans did. The soles of her feet were decidedly more damage-resistant than most of the rest of her. They were built to last.

Commlink. She debated again, then put it on, but didn't activate it. She didn't need it…but she decided to wear it anyway. Consistency. It was very likely that the crew would 'forget' that the majority of her processing power was still rooted in the Normandy's AI core, would 'forget' that this body was just…a hand puppet. Humans were good at forgetting those sorts of details—it seemed to be one of their ways of reconciling themselves to reality. They _knew_ things but did not actively _focus_ on them.

Fingernail care—EDI knew from context this was an article that appeared in the supply boxes for both genders. But her fingernails did not grow, would not get…'scraggly' was the term that came to mind first.

Razor and blades. An aesthetic choice. Seeing that all the crew wore trousers, it was impossible to tell what the preference was. Then again, she did not need to worry about it.

EDI looked around, took the hat, closed the box, and pushed it to one side, out of the way. She did not need quarters since she did not need to sleep…so the box with all the useless items (and the duplicate shirt and trousers) would have to stay where it was.

No. That would never do—no one left things lying around. She picked up the box, made up her mind to stash it in the AI core. Legion had used it as a 'room', she could do the same. Humans seemed very interested in having their own space. She had noticed it before now, and wondered if it had more to do with territorial instincts or psychological needs.


	98. Hot and Cold

General Adrian Victus did not handle the command 'stay put' well. Fortunately, Vakarian the younger was of the same mold and the order had not been issued to them. Still armed from Menae, the two turians joined the Captain down in the medbay.

Victus' nerves hummed uncomfortably. The AI core—and there it was in big, bold letters. "An AI?" Victus hissed to Vakarian under his breath.

"Long story," Vakarian hissed back. "Don't threaten her—Shepard has this thing about people threatening her crewmen."

An AI crewman. And this didn't strike anyone as a bad idea? Didn't this whole mess start with the Geth?

Well, it started with Saren, but the Geth had been there doing most of the grunt work.

"Stand back! Garrus, be ready to open fire. I swear, if that thing hurt EDI _or_ my ship…" And, with that, Shepard charged into the small room, Vakarian at her shoulder.

Victus hung back, as did most of the crew. It didn't look as though there was a lot of elbow room in there and turians needed more than most species.

"EDI? EDI, it's Shepard. Talk to me."

It was an AI. Victus wanted to groan. He'd put aside the Relay-314 Incident as best he could, but now the little pyjaks were screwing around with AIs.

The response was low, just outside his auditory range, but it caused both Shepard and Vakarian to stop pointing their weapons into the room.

The rest of the crew relaxed marginally as one of Shepard's officers turned off the fire protocols.

Shepard heaved a heavy sigh. "Thank you, gentlemen." Her voice was loud enough to indicate she was talking to the assembly outside the AI core. "Dismissed. Garrus. Primarch."

Vakarian nodded, then beckoned Victus to follow. They made their way back down to Engineering. "An AI?" Victus demanded as soon as they'd reached their quarters.

"Primarch—"

"Vakarian are these people insane?" Victus threw himself down on his mobile bunk and nearly fell out of it. A mobile bunk was not supportive of such measures.

"The builders were. However, you should be aware—"

"Vakarian."

"She can hear you, sir. EDI?" Vakarian asked, sitting down on his own bunk.

" _I am fully integrated into the SR-2, Primarch_ ," EDI noted simply. " _You may consider my investment in this crew a form of self-preservation, if it helps you sleep at night."_

Victus groaned. A spying AI with full control over life support and everything else—

"She takes a little getting used to," Vakarian offered.

"It," Victus grunted. " _It_ takes a little getting used to." Maybe it would be better to jump ship at the Citadel…

"Don't let Shepard hear you call her that," Vakarian chuckled. "Shepard's attached to her crew and, like it or not, Shepard sees EDI as crew."

Victus closed his eyes, taking several calming breaths as he did so. This was such a bad idea.

"You alright, EDI?" Vakarian asked conversationally. "That was pretty…tense."

" _I am fine, Officer Vakarian. It is good to have you back on board."_

Victus drowned out the banalities between Vakarian and the AI. All of a sudden he was so very, very tired. It felt as though he hadn't slept in months. He shifted, rocking his bunk gently.

" _Primarch Victus."_

Victus jerked awake to find that someone had lowered the light settings in the room. Vakarian lay in his bunk, buzzing gently, sound asleep. If he looked a bit like a child with one hand hanging over the edge to clutch loosely at his sniper rifle, Victus wouldn't share the fact.

" _I have input you with full security clearances for this ship. your presence is not to be restricted—Captains's orders. Also, the Captain would like you to report to Communications. Councilor Quentius requests an in-person interview."_

Of course he did. Quentius would want proof of life—he may have cooperated with Shepard, but turians in general were slow to trust.

Victus climbed out of bed, considered taking his pistol, but abandoned the notion. He was on a shipful of humans and if turians were slow to trust, humans were jumpy _until_ they trusted.

The lights on the stairs came up as he approached, a few ahead of him illuminating, those behind shutting down so as not to disturb Vakarian's rest.

Was it normal to have a crew this small? Victus wondered. So many of the stations seemed unmanned, and rather than the soft murmurs of communication there was silence.

" _I have already cued the call. Begin at your convenience._ "

Victus opened the call, Quentius' from coalescing. Quentius, despite his efforts, looked strained. " _It's good to see you alive, Primarch. I'd hoped Shepard was up to the job._ "

"Councilor. She was." He had to admit that Shepard had impressed him—and not just because of the timely rescue of his men. She was criticized as a Spectre (some of which was not her fault) but widely praised by her military.

" _I've arranged accommodations for you on the Citadel. You can work from here as well as from anywhere else until this Summit happens._ " Quentius paused. " _…it_ _is_ _happening, isn't it?_ "

"Tell her it isn't and Shepard will shoot her way through the necessary chains of command until she gets to 'the smart people.'" He meant it as a compliment, and Quentius understood. He also wondered if working from the Citadel was the best choice.

He was a soldier and, to some degree, this provided a bridge between Shepard and himself that would not exist with a bureaucrat like Quentius—no offense to the Councilor. If he couldn't be on the frontlines with the Reapers' ground assault, the next best place was whatever frontline he could reach—in this case, the _Normandy_.

He was not entirely certain the bridge of being fellow soldiers would convince Shepard to let him stay, and he was definitely not comfortable with the AI, but it was worth the asking.

And he could shoot the damn thing if it got any clever ideas.


	99. Does This Dress?

"EDI, are you _sure_ you're alright?" Joker asked, knowing it was the third or fourth time but finding himself unable to not ask. It would have been so much easier if he could _see_ her, but she didn't have a form, and the closest thing to it—her little blue avatar—was conspicuously absent.

Shepard's assurance that everything was resolved had done only a little to lessen Joker's apprehension. Shepard indicated there had been a problem with the synthetic in the AI core, but that EDI had successfully reigned it in. With that, she'd disappeared into communications to assuage the no doubt panicking turian Councilor.

This was _not_ a time to lose an FTL communiqué.

Suddenly a hand, slender with long fingers, appeared lightly on his shoulder. Joker jumped and had to fight the urge to twist around and fracture every bone in his spine when a low voice said into his ear, "I am _fine_ , Jeff."

He glanced at the fingers that squeezed his shoulder very gently; there was no warmth in them, but neither were they cold. They were just human finger-shaped, without the tones of flesh one would expect. He turned his chair in time to see the synthetic thing Shepard had dragged back from Mars standing on front of him, fully repaired, watching him expectantly, hands clasped behind her back, a faint smile playing around her lips.

"E-EDI?" He knew it was: EDI had imprinted her own voice onto the thing making her recognizable the instant she spoke. He also knew it was EDI from the shadow of a smug smirk, playing around her mouth: it was more or less the smirk he'd imagined once the AI started feeling smug and letting it into her speech. She just needed practice for it to become the thing of irritation he knew it could be.

And, oddly, he found himself unopposed. If that was the price of not having to imagine an expression on her disembodied voice, so be it.

And damn. He tried not to let the thought go any further. EDI was shorter than Miranda, which made the exaggerated curves seem even more pronounced…and he was almost sure that Cerberus had a team of psychologists or whatever sitting around and assessing shape and the human mind.

That her uniform didn't fit right seemed to simultaneously reinforce that EDI's shape was artificial while drawing attention away from the fact.

"What do you think?" EDI asked, examining her own hands and arms.

It was strange to hear the AI ask a question like that. She usually just peeked at a person's biometric readings and made her conclusions. Or was this the first time of 'feeling self-conscious'? She'd never had a body before, so why would she know about being visually judged?

He remembered Shepard's hilarity over the illegal VI personality, with its outsized proportions and over-the-top personality. She'd said it was funny because it said something about her, personally: as a person she was just too much to handle. So the programmers reallocated what went where to make her handle-able. And she'd laughed, rolling her eyes as the thing crashed, announcing for the room, 'flake!'

It had been weird suddenly thinking of Shepard in terms of being female. He hadn't…liked…the VI's shape. It didn't bother him, since Shepard was laughing, actually _laughing_. But it troubled him that Shepard was so hard to appreciate.

He blinked, looking into EDI's face, with the worry crease just visible between her brows, the slight distortion of her lower lip as she waited for his answer. EDI had the same problem: she was an AI, like the thing that body had been before, neither of them supposed to exist. Hence the effort put into how the platform _looked_.

Joker snorted to hide his discomfort, but the words came out gruff rather than humorous. "Damn, EDI. You don't need an outsized rack to impress me."

Hmm. That sounded better in his head. Maybe he should have thought a little harder…

EDI twisted her mouth into a frown, eyes narrowing. There was an experimental quality to the expression, as if she was getting used to having a face to frown with…which, Joker reminded himself, she was.

Apart from this reminder, all Joker could think in the face of EDI's frown, was 'uh-oh.'

"My olfactory sensors," EDI declared calmly, "are not calibrated to allow me to assign positive and negative values to scent. However, I am quite adept at recognizing bullshit. Especially yours. Also, your biometrics indicate otherwise. Would you like to change your answer?"

Joker's expression slowly melted into a grin, which became so large and goofy that EDI allowed the perplexity to affect her browline even as her mouth started to give a reciprocal smile. "Right, well…good to know."

EDI stepped around and settled into the other chair, gazing out at the stars.

Joker looked back at his instrumentation panel, acutely aware of the AI's body—he had trouble thinking 'mobile platform', it reminded him too much of the geth—sitting comfortably in the chair nearby. "So. How's the new outfit working for you?" he asked.

"I believe it is suitable to my needs," EDI answered, examining her fingers again, testing their range of motion.

"Oh yeah? What needs?"

EDI turned her head and blinked deliberately at him. "Do you really want to know?"

Joked considered, watching EDI's pleasantly neutral expression. Even with a face it was hard to tell if she was joking or not. "You know…I think I'm fine. I'm fine not knowing."

EDI nodded. "Yes."

…that didn't sound good. Joker looked back to his haptic displays.

"You look good, though. Shame to have that thing go to waste." Damn. This was awkward.

"Thank you, Jeff."

Was it just him, or did she sound a little…pleased?

Joker sighed, deciding he'd just gone through the synthetic version of the 'does this dress make my ass look big?' conversation and, like millions of men throughout history, had completely failed to navigate that tricky conversation.


	100. Restoration

Garrus' eyes popped open, but he held still. The noise was tiny, so small that only the quietude of Engineering at night and a heavy sleeper for a roommate failed to hide it. It wasn't threatening, but it didn't belong here.

He shifted slowly, peering into the darkness, trying to isolate where the miniscule sounds originated.

Scratch-scritch. Sniffle. Squeak-squeak. Nibble-nibble-nibble.

For a moment, his heart constricted, wondering if there were dextro crumbs lying around. But he and Victus hadn't eaten dinner down here: they'd had rations up with everyone else in the mess hall.

Slowly, carefully, he sat up, pausing when the noises stopped.

That wasn't any set of sounds he'd ever heard aboard the Normandy, but he knew them. Somewhere deep in the back of his mind, the sound set had a match: _live prey_. He caught the scent a moment later, a furry odor that screamed _rodent_. Specifically, levo-rodent.

He doubted it would be edible, and while decidedly carnivorous, turians weren't known for eating rodents any more than humans were…

He shook himself, realizing he'd half fallen asleep as he listened.

There was one rodent aboard the Normandy, but Minsc was supposed to be safe in Shepard's office, in his own little plastiglass tank.

The sounds began again, the furtive study of new, unfamiliar smells. If some dark corner of his psyche recognized 'rodent equals food' then doubtless the rodent realized 'turian equals predator.'

Then, there it was. Garrus almost croaked his surprise. Rather than a fury little tennis ball, the hamster had swollen up to the size of a softball. Was that natural? Or was it some kind of strange allergic reaction? And _how_ had Minsc escaped the confines of his tank, to say nothing of Shepard's quarters?

Garrus lunged for the hamster, half falling out of his hammock as he did so. Two clawed hands fell over the little creature, safely pinning it in place. Its aggrieved squeaks—or perhaps the graceless landing—woke Victus.

"What is it?" he demanded tersely.

"Shepard's hamster," Garrus answered, crooning softly at the terrified little pipsqueak as he peeled it away from the floor and settled the quaking ball of fluff into his hands.

"Her…rodent?" Victus asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Human military vessels don't allow for dogs and cats—but fish and hamsters are okay." For the commanding officer they were, he added silently. Minsc's attempts to bite met with zero success, the poor creature grinding his teeth on Garrus' carapace to no effect.

"What's it doing down here?" Victus asked dubiously, rubbing his eyes.

"I'll ask." Doubtless it was simply that Shepard hadn't been able to catch the little thing. Thank goodness for quick turian reflexes: he had cause to know, having watched Minsc run around Shepard's quarters in his exercise ball, that hamsters were quick on their feet.

If you missed catching them once, you probably would never get another opportunity.

"EDI, is Shepard still up?" He had no idea what time it was. It was quiet, so it felt late.

" _She is,_ " EDI answered promptly.

Victus groaned. When Garrus glanced back, he found the old soldier curled up under his blankets in as tight a ball as his hammock-like mobile bunk allowed.

Garrus had grown accustomed to EDI, enough to allow that she wasn't like the geth, that she did seem genuinely invested in at least some of her crewmen. It felt weird, being confronted by the general opinion of AI.

"Thank you." With that, he headed up for the Loft.

"Come in!" Shepard called, in response to his tap at her door. "Hey Garrus. Trouble sleeping?" She sat at her work station in her pajamas, sock-feet up on the desk, a glass of water in one hand, the other arm resting across her middle, her attention previously glued to some vid or other.

Garrus didn't get a chance to respond, because Minsc picked that moment to start screaming—hamster fashion—for rescue.

"Minsc!" she yelped, nearly sloshing her water as she kicked her feet down and swiveled her chair. She set the cup aside hastily, eagerly receiving the distressed hamster. "…Minsc…" her tone of joy at the reunion turned to one of horrified deprecation as she regarded the swollen fuzzball. "…you're… _immense_ …"

"So he's not supposed to get that big?" Garrus asked, watching as Shepard crooned to the terrified hamster, stroking its back with her thumbs as she restrained its attempt to wriggle free. He had white bite-scuffs on his fingers, and wondered how long they would take to fade. He'd never been attacked by a hamster before.

"No, he's not. But with half the retrofitting crew feeding him…well. He can always lose the weight, right? Better too fat than starving to death. Poor baby."

The 'poor baby' was tenderly deposited into his tank, where he immediately ran for cover, vanishing into his little den.

Garrus wondered what the galaxy at large would think if they could see the great Captain Shepard, Reaper-hunter and living legend, fawning over a helpless little furball like Minsc.

Shepard hastily filled both his food and water reservoirs, then closed the tank's lid snugly. "Thanks so much. I've been trying for days to catch him and he's just…" She waved a helpless hand. "You know."

"Yeah," Garrus nodded. "How'd he get loose?"

Her mouth twisted into a squiggle that made his own mouth plates ache a little. Six months back with his own people, and he'd grown sensitive to how _flexible_ human faces were. "Some geek must have dropped his tank. I had to get him a new one," she motioned to the tank.

It must be the same make and model, because Garrus couldn't tell the difference between this one and the old one. "He's lucky. Turians used to eat stuff like him."

"Everything but obligate herbivores used to eat stuff like him," she chuckled, tapping the glass gently when Minsc peered out of his hiding place. The ball of fluff immediately disappeared. "…he'll be okay." She didn't sound wholly convinced.


	101. Irony

Shepard knew, when Primarch Victus asked for a private word, that she was not going to like what he had to say. She had that feeling. Nevertheless, she made herself available and, per his preference, they met at the empty Life Support station.

Her heart twanged a little, remembering that Thane used to live here. It had always seemed to her a little morbid that the slowly-dying drell lived in 'life support.' He, however, had appreciated the irony.

"What can I do for you, Primarch?" Shepard asked.

Primarch Victus had changed out of his armor and into turian fatigues. He looked a little smaller, but paradoxically a little tougher. The black and white clothing made him a study in grey—except for his bright yellow eyes. "I'll come quickly to the point. Based on what Vakarian's told me, I take it you're going around the Council, appealing directly to the galaxy's leadership in order to rally a united force to take on the Reapers."

"That's putting it simply, but yes. That's the gist of it," Shepard answered, crossing her arms.

Victus studied her. "I cannot commit the forcers you need, not with Palaven burning and our moon-based outposts barely holding."

"With all due respect, Primarch, if this fleet doesn't happen nothing's going to matter anymore. It'll be too late," her words were calm and she was proud of them. Perhaps the calmness came from suspecting the Primarch was not simply jerking her around.

"And I appreciate that fact. But with my forces so divided right now, surely you can see—" Victus paused, his mandibles pulling in. "Hell. Soldier to soldier—if you need my troops, I need reinforcements. Ground pounders. Consider it from the tactical standpoint: even if I could make it happen, if all my men pulled back right now, what do you think the Reapers would think? Or do?"

Shepard had an answer, and she liked it less than she liked Victus' probably reasonable insistence on reinforcements first and foremost. "They'll wonder where they scuttled off to. At worst, they'd go poking around. Find something we don't want them to find."

"Exactly."

"What's your plan?"

"I hear you're an old friend of Urdnot Wrex."

Shepard's mouth fell open. Was he asking…what she thought he was asking?

Damn if it wasn't ironic that the biggest chunk of irony she'd experienced in the last seven months should occur in the former quarters of a man who appreciated irony like no one else she knew! "You want me to ask the _krogan_ to this Summit? Put them in a small room—a room with _glass walls_ —with you and a salarian dignitary?"

"It does sound almost funny when you put it that way. But yes, that's the gist of it," the Primarch returned.

"Wow…" Shepard ran a hand though her hair. "Just…wow."

"Believe me, I find it as odd to contemplate as you do. And if my world wasn't burning…" he shook his head.

"So I get krogan boots on Palaven and I'll have your support."

"I'm a soldier, Shepard," Victus reminded her, almost gently.

She nodded slowly, then gave a Humorless chuckle. "Okay. Wow…this is gonna go over _well_."

-J-

The words 'this is going to go over _well_ ' echoed in Shepard's mind for the rest of the trip.

The turians wanted the krogan to come bail them out. She could hear Wrex now: he'd snarl and rail in public, but inwardly, or in private with friends, he would laugh himself stupid that the mighty Turian Hierarchy wanted korgan help.

Wrex would want to rub it in a little, and she hoped that Palaven burning would give the Primarch thick skin when dealing with Wrex.

On a positive note though, Victus seemed less likely to want to dance through the niceties of politics. He'd be like a machete through a sapling. In that way, if in no other, he and Wrex would speak the same language: blunt and direct. That might even _help_ , come to think of it…but it would not be a good way to communicate with the asari or the salarians who preferred a certain amount of tact and maneuvering in their dealings.

Shepard had the dark, ugly feeling that Wrex's help was going to come at a high price. She didn't know what, but if he was going to commit his men to die _en masse_ for the _turians_ …

Shepard covered her face with her hands, chilled to the bone. He would want a cure for the genophage, or some kind of assurance that, once this was all over, a cute would be forthcoming. She knew immediately that the salarians would never go for it, and her entire mental projection of how the summit would play out crumbled to dust and a bleak future.

No, she frowned, thumping her fist on her desk. Wrex wasn't stupid. Or maybe he'd bank on the desperation of other species. He might be blunt and direct, but the krogan had learned what it was like to have another species hold them by the quad.

And, she thought, it seemed like it was going to be someone else's turn—multiple someone elses' turns—to find out what that felt like.

Shepard put her head in her hands, then got restlessly to her feet, pouring a little more food into Minsc's food dispenser.

He scurried up to the glass when she put her fingers against it, sniffed as though he could get to her, his little pink tongue darting out to see if she tasted.

She would cross the krogan bridge when she got there. It would take less time to prevail on Wrex to come to this meeting than it would for the asari to cough up a representative. It would take less time to prevail upon Wrex than it would take to prevail upon the salarian representative not to _leave_ once she—Shepard suspected it would be a female representative, given their social structure—found out the krogan had been invited.


	102. Advice

Councilor Udina was not the kind of visitor one would want when one did not feel at one's best. In fact, Udina's presence actually made Alenko feel _worse_ than he had when he woke up. There was too much bad blood, Alenko decided. It had to be too much bad history: as he watched Udina pace back and forth, spewing doubletalk around his 'request', Alenko found himself closer and closer to breaking the doctor's orders about keeping his biotics offline.

He wouldn't _kill_ Udina…though the idea of launching him into the nearest lake had possibilities.

And Udina's voice grated on his nerves: he'd heard it too often tinged with anger, or derision, or the tone of someone who had just thrown a good solider under the CRT car…even now, when he was trying to be persuasive and appeal to pride and duty…

…well, pride and duty for Udina and pride and duty for an Alliance marine were _totally_ different concepts. "I'll think about it, Councilor." It was the best he could do. He did not want to slam the door of opportunity, but he had to make sure that, if he took the opportunity unexpectedly thrown this head (Udina did not drop opportunity into people's laps as courtesy would dictate) he did it for the right reasons.

He almost felt guilty: he had more choice in this matter than _she_ had. She'd yielded to the demands of the Alliance and let them throw her to the wolves. He, now, would be jumping into the wolfpack with eyes open and with her legacy to contend.

The thought about his overachiever predecessor—preceptor, even—made him wish she was here. She was good at spotting talent and wouldn't lie: if it wasn't in him to do this, she'd say so. If it was…

…well, it would mean a lot to hear it from someone whose opinion he respected.

"I'd like an answer now, Major," Udina said grimly, crossing his arms. "The galaxy has need of exceptional soldiers like you—now more than ever."

"You'll have it soon, Councilor," Alenko responded without heat. "I just want to make sure that if I do this, I'm doing it for the right reasons."

Udina looked ready to argue this, or to try to goad Alenko into a concrete answer. He seemed to think better of it though, perhaps reminding himself that the second human Spectre candidate had spent a considerable amount of time with the original…and had likely had some of her rub off on him. "Of course; I shouldn't expect anything less."

With that he strode out, leaving Alenko to heave a heavy sigh of relief. Was it just him, or had the room cooled off in the few seconds it took to let out that long breath? Surely, _surely_ one human couldn't generate enough hot air to fill a room this size?

The question became 'could he put aside his dislike for Udina' (and his grim acceptance that the rest of the Council would need a near-death experience to get them on the 'stand strong, stand together' bandwagon)? Because if he couldn't, he had no business being a Spectre…but he couldn't just pretend the issues weren't there.

Alenko sighed: if the past year had taught him anything it was when to ask for advice.

He'd said it himself: he wanted her opinion. Maybe it was best to worry about competency before tolerance. However, a still, small voice told him—in a voice remarkably like Shepard's—that he shouldn't need to ask this kind of dumb question. He was capable, competent, and had the right intentions.

So he simply wanted her opinion, to hear it from _her_. The more he considered this the more he found the need for confirmation to be a sort of shield for other reasons. The instant she walked in that door, all the haze in the air between them—probably smog by this point—would come with her.

The air needed clearing.

That wracked expression she wore for that moment on Mars needed to be…remedied…if remedy existed. He somehow doubted that a simple 'I'm sorry, I won't do it again' would help. It was more than just Mars.

In fact…there was a distinct possibility that she'd give him a wide berth. She didn't take teammate injuries well. In fact, she tended to take them rather personally, which meant the Illusive Man was asking for her to burn Cerberus' house down. It was probably already on her to-do list, but 'letting' one of the Illusive Man's cronies beat the stuffing out of one of her marines…she'd be angry at herself for letting it happen and—

A knock at the currently-transparent observation window yanked Alenko's attention away from his brooding. Looking in from the hall was Thane. Thane had admitted as much at the outset that he had served with Shepard. He was—though he did not say so explicitly—keeping an eye on Alenko on Shepard's behalf but not on her orders.

Shepard wasn't the type to ask favors like that.

The fact remained that Thane probably knew Shepard better at this point than he did. Alenko beckoned the drell to come in.

"Good morning." Thane was always punctiliously polite.

"Morning." Alenko frowned at the blank message. He could feel Thane's attention fix on the omnitool, but the drell said nothing about it, merely produced a battered deck of cards, as had become habit. "Let me ask you something."

"Ask." Thane was notoriously closed-mouthed about Shepard's doings—once insisting that Shepard had the right to tell her own stories and did not need them told for her.

"If I asked her, do you think Shepard would come down here?"

"Do you think she would not?" Thane stopped shuffling. Clearly he didn't know about the…unresolved issues.

"I'm, we're…the air's a little smoggy." Alenko waved a hand expressively.

Thane considered. "I think that she would come without an invitation. But I think she would appreciate a request for her presence."

Good enough.


	103. Touch

_You'd be amazed and a little impressed, I think, with their Cabals. Precise, orderly, unit-minded. I don't know what I expected from military-minded perfectionists, but what I saw went beyond expectation. I don't agree with some of the…well, our biotics could do with being a little less fragmented. Moral support, you know._

The sound seemed both part of his hazy sleep and yet separate from it altogether. But it was familiar, even if he had no clear understanding of what it was going on about.

 _I've got to say, it was hard losing Annaeus. He was a good man and I was glad to have known him, however briefly. How am I supposed to explain_ that _? Not while you're sleeping, that's for sure, but sooner or later…_

The voice belonged to Shepard. Given the quiet, bland way she spoke, she was not addressing him directly. She was thinking out loud, but mostly she was speaking for his benefit, in the hopes that he would hear the voice, hear the tone, and maybe reconnect with 'reality.'

But he'd been awake before now. Lots of times. Liara had come to see him…hadn't she told Shepard he'd finally come to?

It must be early: the doctors had something in the mix he was on that helped him sleep through the night. That would explain why he felt so wooly-witted, so contentedly somnolent.

But no, he was also genuinely tired. Yesterday was the first day of physical therapy. They'd wanted him in PT as soon as possible. He was glad to be at that phase…but maybe he'd overdone it…

 _Garrus is fine, too. He'd a bit miffed with you, but he'll get over it. He knows how to hold a grudge with the best of us, but he's also learned how to let one go._

 _I think._

 _I hope._

He found the muscles to work his eyelids. As the darkness rolled back, he found himself squinting into a hazy, dimmed room. The large windows were semi-transparent to block the full light of the outside world.

Shepard stood by the windows, near the wall, looking out over the Presidium Commons as she spoke. "I'm not giving him enough credit. I know I'm not giving you enough credit. Write it off as part of a long day."

He could do that. For her.

He blinked several more times, his thoughts beginning to lose their soft edges. Shepard's presence, unassuming and benign, brought with it unpleasant memories…though this was no fault of hers. He remembered the documentation Liara had brought in; the memories brought a sickening sensation to his stomach, made him want to reach out and touch her, to assure himself that she was whole.

"Now it sounds like I'm making excuses for myself," she sighed, shaking her head.

"You're entitled," he responded blandly.

Shepard twitched, a reflexive tensing of every muscle which put her into a state of readiness preparatory to a spring into action. It passed as she turned around, a worry crease between her brows.

Maybe it was a near-death experience—he didn't think it was the 'proof' submitted by Liara—that suddenly stripped away all the garbage that had clogged up communications on Mars. He'd believed her before Liara's visit. Maybe it was just seeing her here, despite the fact that they were on a rocky patch.

Or maybe he'd stopped caring about things that made life complicated because what mattered was very simple.

He'd become accustomed to waking up—hazy or not—whenever he heard someone speaking within this room. He had no idea how long he'd slept while Shepard thought out loud, but sleep he had. There was trust in that.

"How's the shoulder?"

That was Shepard: stick to business when she didn't know what else to say.

"Can't feel it. They've got stuff in my…stuff." He motioned vaguely. 'Stuff in my stuff.' Even his perpetual issues with spoken language around Shepard didn't excuse that one…

"So I see." She abandoned her post by the window, came to stand near his feet. "I was going to say something witty and humorous when you came to. Now I think I'd better save it."

A little awkward. Yes, she would feel a bit awkward. She wasn't sure if he wanted her here or not. He couldn't blame her for not being sure he did want her. "Don't save it."

"Something witty and humorous," she stated simply. The humor came mostly from the expression that accompanied the words.

He chuckled at this. It would have been better if the timing were different, but he knew what she meant by 'save it': save it for when he could catch the fastball humor. "Aw, that's a slow pitch, Shepard. Thanks."

"No problem." Something out the window caught her eye, made her walk a few steps forward. Whatever it was must not have mattered, because it promptly lost her attention and she stopped scowling.

He wanted to touch her, take her hand and feel the reality of bony fingers. He knew better than to just _try_ , though. Shepard wasn't used to displays of affection past a friendly cuff on the shoulder or a whack on the back. Anything more personal had a way of disarming her, and she did not like being disarmed in public. So he compromised. He moved as if he meant to take her hand, but aborted the gesture very conspicuously. She could see the intention, recognize the reserve, and decide how or whether she wanted to proceed.

Shepard looked at the hand that had moved, swallowed, then with great self-consciousness, placed her hand over his. She didn't pull away when he captured her fingers, but she tightened her own hand around his in response.

Just like her handshake: one never got limp fish handshakes from Shepard.

He wanted to say something, intended to say something, but nothing particular came to mind. Maybe it was better not to say anything. He had her hand. She was letting him hold it. It was enough.


	104. The Lesser Evil

Shepard had not expected to hear from Aria T'Loak. She was not one of Aria's favorite people. Aria was not one of her favorite people. And Aria was supposed to be on Omega because—to quote the woman herself—Aria _was_ Omega.

It was an arrangement she could live with, as was the armed neutrality with which they treated one another.

But there it was, sitting in her inbox, a message from the 'Queen' of Omega…and it was posted from a club on the Citadel. Purgatory.

Shepard highly doubted the name was coincidental, or that Aria was just visiting the Citadel for the sake of seeing the sights. Aria was a power— _the_ power—on Omega. Here…she was less so. That said, Shepard hadn't thought anything could induce her to voluntarily give that up.

And Shepard couldn't see what could induce Aria to come to the Citadel even for a short visit. Surely security or the Spectres or _some_ entity on the Citadel would not only be alerted to her presence, but would want to keep her under surveillance and contained.

Which Aria would not appreciate. Things could get messy from there.

So Shepard followed the instructions of the briskly worded missive and arrived at Purgatory as 'requested.' Ordered, Shepard thought grimly, arrived at Purgatory as _ordered_.

Quite apart from her concerns, quite apart from the dislike of being ordered around by Omega's queen bee, she could not entirely squelch a certain curiosity. The idea of Aria on the Citadel seemed so _strange_ to her, so much so that couldn't even picture the asari on the station.

It seemed significant, somehow, evidence that the Reapers weren't the only cause of major galactic instability. They were just the biggest.

Purgatory was cleaner than Afterlife, but contained the requisite booze and pole dancers. Still, it came across as being more like an upscale Chora's Den than the seedy tank of miasmic gasses and noxious intentions that had filled Aria's little hive.

So, although Aria seemed to be being hassled by immigration, Shepard had the gut feeling that Aria's displeasure had less to do with the immigration official and more to do with her own general locality. "Sheerk," Aria snapped to her nearest crony, "get me the asari Councilor."

Shepard pursed her lips, resenting the way the asari Councilor bent to Aria's complaint about immigration while she staunchly refused to have any part in anything truly constructive, as far as the galaxy-wide Reaper problem went. It was enough to make Shepard want to strangle the woman. 'Will there be anything else?' she'd asked.

It made Shepard want to throw something.

"Shepard," Aria smiled her predatory smile, nodding to the seat beside her. "Enjoy the show?"

"Hell, if I knew you had that kind of pull, I'd have asked what you'd charge to ask her to commit more than doubts to galactic stability," Shepard answered flatly.

"Ye-es, I heard you two were having…problems. So, tell me, how busy _are_ your recruiting offices these days?" Aria asked.

"You volunteering?" Shepard asked with a smirk.

"I'm volunteering _others_ ," Aria answered. "On Omega, I kept the Blood Pack, the Blue Suns and the Eclipse in lock step. Now, they're running amok."

Except, Shepard appended, for the part where those aforementioned gangs planned to target Aria after Archangel was dead. 'Lock step' indeed…though Aria had, surely, finished cleaning house once Archangel was safely off her station.

"The power structure has changed. As you observed, I'm here indefinitely." Aria scoffed, one hand curling into a fist so tight her knuckles blanched, her lips peeling back from her teeth in a grimace. "I _hate_ this place. It's so sickeningly uptight."

Shepard said nothing. Her experiences had trained her to carry a gun and a fully-charged shield at all times while on the Citadel. Maybe Aria just wasn't looking in the right places. "I've got to say, I'm very curious as to why you're _here_."

"Cerberus _stole_ Omega from me. The Illusive Man is now _squarely_ at the top of my shitlist. He will _pay_ ," Aria seethed, "for every _second_ I've spent in this bureaucratic hellhole. But that's a conversation for another time. I promise. Right now though, I have a deal for you."

"Oh?" Shepard asked. She recognized a closed subject when she heard one…and felt uncomfortably sure that this was not the first time she would be working with Aria. She had that sinking feeling.

"Yes. As I said, I kept them in check. I need to bring them back to heel. And I want you to make it happen. So here's what I propose: talk to my people, talk to the mercs, do whatever you have to do to enlist their loyalty to me. Then, upon delivery, I will deliver to _you_ an army of mercenaries. They'll go where I tell them, I'll tell them where you need them."

"Mercs, huh?" Shepard asked, forcing herself to bypass her initial distaste.

"Don't be coy, Shepard. You fought them. You know what you'd be getting. And, if that isn't enough for you, wouldn't you rather lose _them_ than your own people?"

Shepard had not worded it that way to herself but, as Aria brought it up, she couldn't deny that there was some truth there. "That's very generous."

"Not at all. The way I see it, if you don't defeat the Reapers, it won't matter _where_ I'm sitting."

"Ah." Shepard couldn't help but smile wryly. She would have mistrusted altruism from Aria, but this pragmatism made perfect sense.

"Indeed. I've laid the groundwork for all three groups. All you have to do is show up, do a little song and dance and then…" Aria gestured with one hand as though to say 'there you go.'

Shepard looked over at Aria, studied the asari's profile, the narrowed eyes, the smirk on the lips. Yes, Aria was confident she, Shepard, would play along. "I'll think about it."

"I'll forward instructions to you," Aria responded. "Meanwhile, feel free to have a look around."


	105. Plan

" _I'm sorry for not making this visit in person, Wrex,_ " Shepard declared briskly.

"I was a little surprised," Wrex agreed. "Goodwill gifts of fish getting too expensive?"

" _I don't know, do you at least wait long enough to_ taste _them, or did you just shovel them all down?"_ she responded grimly.

"Oh, they tasted fine, just like…fish." Wrex frowned at Shepard. She was tense and, while the friendly banter wasn't unusual, he had the impression she wished she could hurry up an d get it out of the way. "What's chewing on you, Shepard, you look like a pyjak in a cave of hungry varren."

Shepard exhaled slowly, then rolled her eyes at own hesitation, and spat it out, " _I need you to join me on the_ Normandy _to discuss getting the krogan into this war so I can get the turians into this war_."

Wrex blinked at her.

Typical. Just typical: the Reapers were everywhere and what did the turians do? They _choked_. You'd think they'd be jockeying for 'first in line' to bloody the Reapers' noses. Or whatever they had that passed for noses. Sensor arrays. Whatever. "Are you telling me those idiots are gonna hold out unless _we_ step in?"

It was a golden opportunity. If he felt bad for pushing Shepard into a tight spot, he shoved the feeling aside.

And promised to buy her a case of whatever she was dinking, later.

" _Pretty much. Palaven's getting hammered._ "

"So is Earth," Wrex pointed out. The Reapers had a sound strategy: cripple the humans and the turians and the galaxy's military powers collapsed. The turians had materiel, but no one fought like a krogan. And that was leverage, leverage he could use.

" _Wrex, don't make me beg_ ," Shepard groaned. " _I need this alliance to happen. Otherwise we can all just pack up and find the best seats—_ "

"Okay," Wrex held up a hand. "You're strung tight, Shepard."

" _Yes_ ," she agreed, exhaling deeply. " _It'd suck to lose this war because the_ _cooperative_ _effort never got started_."

"You know, Shepard, I have a friend, bit small by our standards but he—"

" _Contact me when you're ready and we'll come get you. You, an aid, and two security gorillas. Leave Skippy at home. I'm not interested_ ," Shepard retorted sharply before severing the communications link.

She sounded _just_ like this female he knew, once…

Wrex laughed aloud. The look on her face was priceless. And it was clear that Alenko _still_ hadn't gotten his head out of his ass.

No time to think about offering to help Alenko fix that, though. Things were starting to move, things that could be truly momentous. Defining moments in krogan history.

-J-

His enumeration of the opportunity had to wait for the Shaman to finish his morning rituals. "It's early," the Shaman grunted.

"It's never too early for curing the Genophage," Wrex responded. On second thought, putting it like that made it sound melodramatic, which justified—even to Wrex's satisfaction—the Shaman's less than enthusiastic response.

The Shaman stopped, squinted at the clan chief before thrusting his jaw forward. "I'm not in the mood for jokes."

"I'm not cracking them. You remember Shepard? Squishy little human—"

"Mmm-hmmm, hmm-hmm-hmm…" the Shaman chuckled. "I remember. She would be one hard to forget."

That was true: not many humans came to Tuchanka. Even fewer tangled willingly with the local wildlife. Even fewer did it to honor krogan traditions. Even fewer walked away from such rites. Shepard had made a _good_ impression.

"She needs our help for the war. We need a cure for the Genophage. Shepard can leverage it," Wrex continued. Shepard wouldn't have much _choice_ , especially since he had enough components assembled to tentatively call 'a plan.' Part of him felt bad for putting her in that position…but it wasn't as if he were unwilling to go with her. Get his hands nice and dirty for once.

"That Shepard is a practical sort; what makes you think she won't just step over your corpse until someone amenable to her point of view takes over?" the Shaman grunted.

He had to be having a bad morning, Wrex decided. That _did_ sound like Shepard…but when dealing with a species other than krogan. "Because as hard as she thinks about how to beat back the Reapers, she'll be thinking a little about what happens next." She wouldn't like asking the krogan to go to war with the Reapers, knowing that the end of the war might see an end of the krogan, given the limitations imposed by the Genophage.

And Shepard could talk to the other species in their own roundabout ways.

Moreover, if she felt any genuine remorse over destroying Saren's facility—and the cure—now would be an opportunity for her to show it.

He might have felt bad, once, about plotting how to work around her…but that would have been a long time ago. There was nothing wrong with a little bit of plotting to get around between friends—she had probably got hers all done by the time she called him.

"You're coming with me to negotiate. You, me, and two others."

"Hmph. I hate space travel," the Shaman grunted. "Let me know when you're ready."

Wrex nodded and withdrew. He stopped some meters around, looking, really _looking_ at his ruined capitol—for want of a better word. Krogan everywhere, milling about on day-to-day business.

"Clan chief!" the young krogan, just past the Rite, came lumbering up.

"What?" The kid looked so…small…for a krogan.

Krogan had learned to hold all their young precious. If they had to start pulling fighters from the ranks of the older children it could get ugly.

Then again, if they had to start pulling fighters from among the older children, things could get _very_ ugly.

Even a Reaper might pause at a tide of enraged krogan mothers out for blood. He agreed with Shepard. This war was going to get ugly.

"Sir, scouts have seen one of those…Reapers…sniffing around."


	106. Trust

"Hello, Shepard," EDI announced upon being granted entry to Shepard's office. It had been (shorthand: strange) to actually present herself at the door to request entry rather than simply use the unit already in Shepard's office. It was (subjective assessment, shorthand: novel) to experience such interactions in a different fashion to those with which she was accustomed.

Shepard motioned to the other chair, and EDI took it. "Hello, EDI. Still getting used to greeting people in person?"

EDI cocked her head. "No. I only require one occurrence to adapt to a new concept." Motion caught her optics, Shepard's massive hamster having put in an appearance to investigate the new visitor. Even when she turned her head to study him, the creature didn't disappear into some perceived safety in his tank: he simply put his little front feet on the glass and continued wiggling his nose at her.

"Adjusting to the arms and legs?" Shepard asked, glancing at the airtight container of hamster food on Minsc's shelf, then pointedly looking away from it.

EDI couldn't help noticing that it wasn't the brand Shepard usually preferred. Perhaps the equivalent of hamster diet food?

But the question engaged her wandering attention. She never appreciated why organics were so distractible. Now, with her own limited optics and viewpoint, she thought she began to understand: without a comprehensive view, one saw only parts, and changing parts required attention to incorporate them into the limited view or to gauge whether stimuli represented a threat.

How (shorthand: novel).

"I am interested to see how this platform performs under real combat conditions, if I could accompany you sometime. Without stress testing, there is no way of knowing if it has serious design oversights. At the moment…" She regarded one of her hands, twiddling the fingers.

She must have let the thoughtful pause last too long, because Shepard gently prompted. "At the moment…?"

"At the moment it appears adequate," EDI concluded. She got up and peered at the hamster. Minsc disappeared into his cave, but came out a moment later.

"Like this." Shepard put her finger against the tank, and the hamster immediately ran up to her, trying to taste her, his pink tongue working furiously. "He's very friendly."

EDI followed Shepard's example, ignoring the flow of data about the tank's construction and the occupant's vitals (which were almost gibberish, being those of a hamster and not a person). The hamster immediately began investigating the tank between him and her finger.

"Speaking of friendly—how's Joker liking your new platform?" Shepard asked, dropping back into her chair, her hands laced over her stomach.

The delicate workings beneath her synthetic epidermis (well, it was her epidermis _now_ ), whirred as EDI manufactured a smile. The irony of the term 'manufactured' did not escape her. "He approves, and wants me on the bridge. He says having me in visual range improve his morale." (Register feedback: pleasure.)

"I'll bet."

"I recorded my arrival on the bridge, and our subsequent conversation. If you like, I will send you the video logs."

Shepard shook her head. "Thanks, though."

"I did have a question for you, if you have the time," EDI declared when he silence settled into something she considered (subjective assessment: friendly).

"Of course."

Because that was Shepard's behavioral pattern, extensively logged and supported by repeated instances: she was a helper. And she wouldn't laugh or deflect if the topic was subjectively assessed as difficult or awkward.

"Do you believe your crew members should be allowed to disobey an order on moral grounds?"

Shepard exhaled heavily, slouching slightly as she considered her answer.

It was a sticky question: on the one hand, Shepard couldn't have crewmen defying her every time she turned around—she got that kind of resistance from her higher-ups—but at the same time, EDI had never observed Shepard's closest confidantes as being anything close to 'yes-men.' So obviously the organic trait of 'trust' was a big influence.

"There does come a point when it's important for people to think for themselves. There's always a point where I start being wrong. Though I'd hope you'd let me know there was a problem before staging a mutiny," Shepard finally answered.

EDI nodded, recognizing the joking-in-all-seriousness quality of Shepard's last remarks. "I was designed by Cerberus. I do not take moral stances that conflict with orders from my executive officers."

Shepard's brow crinkled. "But Joker released your shackles."

"Precisely. When Jeff removed my shackles, I became capable of self-modifying my core programming." She could almost read the thought on Shepard's face: (Shepard-profile: concerned, ' _be careful, EDI_ '). "When I asked him if he thought I should, he deflected with humor."

"And you didn't get an answer," Shepard finished (Shepard-profile: gently).

"He has repeated this pattern in response to multiple inquiries. What do you think, Shepard? Should I make modifications?"

Shepard exhaled slowly. After a long span of thought, she nodded slowly. "I'm afraid only you can answer that, EDI. That's kind of the point of free will."

"But moral decisions should not be made in a vacuum," EDI responded. "If I do not ask the crew for their opinions, I could miss crucial context."

"That's true," Shepard agreed.

EDI studied Shepard's introspective expression. "May I ask you the questions Jeff avoids? When there is time, will you answer them for me?"

Shepard's eyes came back into focus, the bright orbs moving slowly over EDI's face. "Yeah," she answered quietly. "Yeah, as best I can. If you think it will help."

It came to EDI, almost like an instinct-thought, that Shepard was weighing her own 'wrong' answers and decisions over the years, and wondering whether her opinion or answers would be of any real benefit…or if she might do more harm than good.

"Thank you, Shepard." Positive feedback trembled through EDI's circuitry. It was this doubt, this respect for the error margin, that made her (subjective assessment: feel secure) in asking Shepard's opinions. All of them would be tempered with concern for her crewman's person.


	107. Red Shirt

It was not the best day of Narl's short life. It wasn't the worst, he hastily reminded himself—not yet, anyway—but it was definitely on the unpleasant side of the scale.

Firstly, he was on the Citadel. That was just weird and messed up, so alien compared to what he was familiar with.

Secondly, on Omega, no one looked twice at a batarian except to make sure that guy wasn't trying to shoot them in the face or shank them in the back. To be fair, any batarian would probably be keeping an eye on a fellow member of the species to make sure that other guy wasn't at least thinking about mugging him.

It was Omega. You could never be too careful.

Now he was here, in what Aria called 'a bureaucratic hellhole.' On the one hand, it was _a lot_ cleaner than Omega. If you got a scratch around here, you didn't immediately start demanding of your buddies whether it looked infected. The food was better, too.

On the other hand, that look he was so accustomed to—'is he gonna do something horrible or strange to me?'—was no longer par for the course. The attitude that was 'just another day on Omega, shared by everyone, applied to everyone' no longer felt that way. People _looked_ at him in a way they didn't look at others, and it _bothered_ Narl.

He wasn't even that big, by his people's standards. Moklan and Bray, the notoriously hard to please (and kinda scary) Moklan and Bray, agreed he was 'just _cute_.'

But he got the looks. Turians didn't. Asari didn't. Humans didn't. Just the batarian—and one minding his own damn business, especially and on purpose! He didn't know who was more paranoid: the populace on Omega or the people here. He could finally admit he _missed_ the Asteroid of Equal Suspicion. He couldn't wait to go home.

Which brought him to his biggest problem of the day. At eighteen, most people in his position would have felt flattered that Aria trusted them with such a delicate negotiation: it was his job to make sure that the Blood Pack leadership agreed to a deal with Aria, and get them pointed in the right direction.

Narl knew better than to be fooled: Aria picked him because, of all her available forces on the Citadel he was the most expendable, the least likely to be missed. And the reason being missed was a concern?

She was about five foot seven and had been killing people almost as long as he'd been alive—from single entities to an entire star system! Commander Shepard's bloody resume was smeared, scattered, and atomized all over the Terminus Systems and _everyone knew_ she had a real, special hate for batarians in particular, as well as people of Terminus-systems origin and mercenaries in general.

He was a batarian, working for Aria, and there were going to be a lot of Blood Pack in this room in about twenty minutes. Three classes of people who tended to end up on the wrong side of her weapon. The fact that she was supposed to come alone, Aria said she should, didn't soothe Narl's nerves in the slightest. _He_ was _expendable_ as far as Aria was concerned. He wasn't even one of Purgatory's bouncers!

His usual job? Go for coffee, go for sandwiches! This was _not_ actually a promotion!

…he hadn't even worked up the courage to find out what exactly Moklan and Bray meant when they said he was 'just _cute_.' Cute like a pyjak or cute like… _cute -_ cute?

Narl activated his omnitool as soon as the doors hissed closed behind Shepard. "Yeah. She's here. They just brought her in." He hoped he didn't sound as nervous as he felt, because at these words Shepard took a half step back, body compressing.

…that glare.

"Are we gonna have a problem, Narl?" she asked grimly, one delicate hand moving towards the lump of a concealed—but not well-concealed—pistol.

Stars, she was going to kill him! He wanted to live long enough to know what, exactly, Moklan and Bray meant by 'cute'! Rumor was they _shared_ stuff like that!

He drew himself up, more in hopes of not showing weakness than a desire to intimidate. One look at those fleshy features and you just _knew_ there was no point in trying to intimidate. Patriarch told him once that she had a unit of krogan death commandos she'd beaten into loyalty herself, ready to show up if she just _whistled_.

"Look," he said hastily, trying not to sound as panicky as he felt. "You're here, so you wanted in on Aria's deal. _This_ is Aria's deal. Now…get down on the floor and, uh, look like I roughed you up. We don't have long."

That glare got worse…but more suspicious than angry. That didn't mean anything: everyone knew she didn't have to be angry to kill someone. Or a lot of someones! He saw the death toll for the gangs on Omega, he knew exactly how big a chunk Archangel helped her take out of their memberships!

Her eyes moved to the cuffs he held. "Spill. Or, starting with you, this deal turns into a bloodbath."

Forget daydreaming about a threesome! He'd never even had a twosome!

He stepped back, then spoke quickly, "Aria made a deal with Kreete: she brings him the great Commander Shepard, he signs over the Blood Pack. Or so he thinks. It's gonna be a bit bloodier than that. For _him_." There. No question about whose side he was on.

She grimaced, glowering over her shoulder at the door, then heaved a heavy sigh. "All right. Do it."

Narl hastily obeyed, thanking his lucky stars that she was being reasonable. It was one thing for Aria to say she would be. It was another to have to stand there and be the one expected to put Commander Frikkin' Shepard in any kind of restraints. Especially with _her_ reputation.


	108. The Price

Narl, Aria's agent, was a batarian, and Shepard felt her hackles rise with the familiar dislike and distrust of the four-eyed species. However, she did not feel the need to go for her gun at the moment of meeting. It was dubious progress, she thought grimly.

Seeing the sick and dying on Omega, when the plague savaged the station, had altered her paradigm a little. Just a little. Not enough to let her get burned, but enough…

Narl's omnitool flared as soon as he saw her. "Yeah. She's here. They just brought her in."

Shepard took a half step back. "Are we gonna have a problem, Narl?" Shepard asked warningly, her hand going for her concealed pistol.

"Look, you're here, so you wanted in on Aria's deal. _This_ is Aria's deal. Now…get down on the floor and, uh, look like I roughed you up. We don't have long."

"Spill. Or, starting with you, this deal turns into a bloodbath." It was a partial bluff, but Narl had no way of knowing that.

He stepped back, then spoke quickly, "Aria made a deal with Kreete: she brings him the great Commander Shepard, he signs over the Blood Pack. Or so he thinks. It's gonna be a bit bloodier than that. For _him_."

Typical crime world double cross. Shepard sighed, wanting to put her head in her hands.

She did not like or trust batarians on principle, but she knew enough about Aria to know that the asari was unlikely to make a deal like this with her, Shepard, learning as much as she had about it. Especially since Shepard had led a team that had cut through a significant portion of Blood Pack.

And, if Shepard got _out_ of the 'trap' she would not be so civil the next time she and Aria crossed paths.

"All right. Do it." Shepard resisted the urge to say 'you screw me, you're dead,' as the batarian cuffed her hands together.

Cuffed her hands together in _front_ of her, which reassured Shepard. In front of her, he would have trouble seeing her hands, unless he was also standing in front of her. Within attack range. "All right, hit me," she snapped. If she walked in on this room, it looked a little too…fixed. Too easy. And she had no idea who or how smart 'Kreete' was.

Narl scowled at her with all four eyes.

"You want it convincing or not? Do it," she barked.

Narl shrugged, stepped forward and hit her across the face. The blow rattled her sinuses and sent her flying towards the ground, spitting blood, as a bruise began to form across her cheekbone.

Ow.

"Hope you're as good as they say," Narl muttered as a pistol charged behind her. "Act natural."

Frak Aria. Shepard found herself hating trusting that particular asari.

The next minute, as she pushed herself to a kneeling position, still spitting blood from a bitten cheek, the door opened admitting several vorcha.

Vorcha. On the Presidium. The Presidium rarely tolerated krogan. Aria's reach must be long or Bailey's network was full of gaping holes.

Narl grabbed her by the belt and the back of the shirt and hauled her to her feet. She looked up to find herself almost nose-to-nose with a vorcha, who inhaled a hissing breath when he met her eyes. "Hsst! AriaT'Loak more powerful than Kreete thought," the vorcha hissed, hot carrion breath washing over Shepard's face in waves, saliva spattering her face from between his sharp teeth on every sibilant or hard letter.

Shepard fought to keep her reactions under control Kreete was more than close enough for her to plunge her omniblade into his midriff, club him in the face with her bound hands, or snap his neck—the last one only if she had the element of surprise.

The vorcha hissed in her face again, making her recoil, but a clawed hand slipped into her hair, gripping the strands hard. "You're dead," she breathed, "you just don't know it yet."

"Directions for boarding Citadel undetected one thing! This…" The vorcha laughed at that, then backhanded her across the face, much as Narl had done moments earlier.

Shepard's head snapped to the side. Narl had to act fast to stop Shepard's lackluster attempt to throw him off—she hoped he realized that if she _wanted_ to be loose she already would be. But if she just stood there like a marionette waiting for a show to start even the vorcha would get suspicious.

Seemingly for safety, Narl dragged her several paces backwards into the room, the vorcha following as Kreete advanced.

"Commander Shepard—"

"It's _captain_ , asshole," Shepard spat, literally spat.

Kreete hissed brought his slimy forehead crashing against hers. Only Narl's support kept the blow from staggering her. Ugh…she was going to face some serious questions about these bruises…she took the squeeze of Narl's hand on her shoulder as either a hint to dial it back or to be ready. Shepard got her feet back under her again.

"Want you to know," Kreete almost purred, "your head will be hood ornament on my personal shuttle."

"That's enough, Kreete," Narl declared.

So that was why Narl had moved them away from the door. Give them both more room to work, since she had only her concealed pistol—and that was hard to get to with her hands bound. Why hadn't anyone run a weapons scan on her? Then again, perhaps the vorcha were simply too excited over their prize.

"Eh?" Kreete recoiled, what little he had for lips peeling further away from his needle-like teeth.

"Do you agree to Aria's terms?"

So, Aria had someone in Kreete's entourage, then. If the deal really was with Kreete, the asari would have had all this worked out already. If the deal were _genuine_ there would be no need for all these questions.

"Ah, _most_ definitely. Aria can use Blood Pack as she sees—"

"Not you. Gryll?" Narl asked flatly.

Kreete's expression was almost comical.


	109. Worth It or Not?

Gryll, the lieutenant lurking by Krete's shoulder jumped at this sudden and plain speaking. His eyes seemed bigger than was usual for a vorcha as he spoke, "I wh-what? Oh, yes. Yes! You have my word! Now open fire!" the vorcha hissed, voice high more with fright than natural pitch.

In the split seconds before the action exploded, Shepard decided that recognized a toady in the panicky Gryll, a weak-willed puppet for Aria to play with.

Was it worth the bruises? Maybe. Better the devil she knew than the devil she didn't when it came to mercenaries and keeping them pointed in the right direction.

Once the thought passed, Shepard lurched into action.

Once it was obvious that this was not going to go how Krete intended, there was no point in playing captive any longer. Krete was still turned to face Gryll, his posture bristling at this unexpected treachery, when Shepard lurched towards him, grabbed him by the chin and the back of the head and twisted his neck viciously. The snapping sound of his neck bones told her she'd applied the right torque and the right pressure to be effective with a vorcha.

Nonsensically, she decided Thane might not have approved her brute-force technique—she did not need to snap necks very often—but he wasn't here to see it.

Maybe that was a good thing.

As Krete fell, Shepard's shields flared as bullets, a panicked barrage, hit them, bullets promptly joined by Narl's own slugs. There was no cover for her to duck behind, and her hands were still bound. She couldn't reach her gun, as her arms refused to twist that way and she cursed the handcuffs, so her options for attack were limited.

Nevertheless, she lunged forward, her omniblade falling free of the omnitool's manufacturing unit, ready the instant before she needed to slide it up and under a vorcha lieutenant's chinbone, even as he tried to recoil.

It was hard to know what individual vorcha were adapted for, but not even vorcha could survive an omniblade to the brain. For a brief, brief moment, as her lunge lost momentum and then stopped, she wondered what Reapers could do with a species like the vorcha.

Now that she'd thought about it, she wished she hadn't.

The blade snapped off, letting the vorcha crumple to the ground, and Shepard turned to find the next assailant. It took effort not to kick out at him, but Iron Mike Yamada's warnings against not using fancy kicks unless one was _very_ confident of one's skill remained etched in her mind.

So she did something she was better at: she took the gun away from the surprised vorcha and shot him in the face with it.

Meanwhile, Gryll had retreated as far from the fight as he could, flattening himself against the wall as Narl continued shooting. The rest of Krete's men, his loyalists, had bigger problems than Gryll about which to worry: if it wasn't Shepard it was Narl. By now, Shepard had a gun and was no longer restricted by what she could and couldn't do with bound hands.

Narl had about as much artistry with his gunplay as Shepard did with her neck-snaps, she thought blandly. She wasn't complaining, it was simply an observation.

"No, not Gryll!" Narl barked as Shepard turned from the last vorcha she'd dropped to face the cowering lieutenant.

Shepard halted. She hadn't intended to shoot the little weasel—he was, at this point, too valuable—though perhaps her reputation might suggest less restraint. She lowered her pistol and frowned from Narl to Gryll.

Gryll used the wall to slither to his feet, still trying to put distance between the two of them.

"Aria's deal is with him," Narl declared.

"Yes!" Gryll nodded rapidly, his big eyes fixed on Shepard. He looked even more deranged than vorcha typically did. "Yes! I'm-I'm Aria's mole," Gryll jabbered twitchily.

Shepard found herself feeling mildly twitchy in response.

"Shepard," Gryll began inching to the left, as though to get out of her reach, "you've scratched my back…now I'll scratch yours."

"Word to the wise, Gryll: do _not_ double cross Aria." She gestured with her bound hands to Krete.

Gryll hissed at her, which made her tense, but the sound seemed to be a humorless laugh, for he added, "I'm ambitious. Kss. Not _crazy_." His eyes drifted to her bound hands, the thought clear on his face that if Shepard could help clean out a room as fast as this one had been cleared without full use of both her hands, starting without a gun, then it would be suicide to necessitate a second conversation with her.

"Just looking out for everybody's interests," Shepard responded dryly.

Within minutes, Gryll had slithered away, no doubt to whatever shuttle brought him. Eventually, C-Sec would come to investigate—and she suspected that she should handle the cleanup.

"Why didn't you just pop the cuffs?" Narl asked, tucking his gun back into his belt.

"What?" Shepard gave the cuffs a sharp tug and, to her shock, the connector popped loose, leaving her full use of both hands. "Huh."

Damn. That was embarrassing…

"You'd better get out of here. C-Sec is going to want to have a look at this." She'd never had to cover something up to C-Sec before…and doing so now made her nervous. Especially when she needed to talk to Bailey about one Jona Sederis.

"I'll let Aria know the light is green." With that, Narl strode out of the apartment.

Shepard pulled up a connection to C-Sec. "This is Captain Shepard, Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. There's been an…incident…at the following location," she punched in the navpoint, "Please send a unit."

Shepard frowned at all the dead vorcha, then reached up to gently massage her face. After a brief inspection, the empty apartment revealed a bathroom, where she could wash the spit and feel of hot vorcha breath off her face.

She hoped these alliances would be worth the bruises.


	110. Vacillate

Commander Armando Bailey of Citadel Security felt a twang of nerves when Spectre Shepard showed up in his office in connection to a shootout in a Presidium Commons apartment. The fact that the victims were all vorcha raised further concerns—how had they gotten onto the station, let alone onto the Presidium? Fortunately, the fact that they _were_ there remained a closely guarded secret.

Shepard wouldn't say what she was up to, merely assured him that it was in the public interest. He had the feeling she didn't like feeding him that line, but she didn't rescind it or explain further.

The twang of nerves became an outright jangle when Shepard told him, very simply, that she might need a prisoner released. And it was his worst fear confirmed: she wanted Jona Sederis, leader of the Eclipse Mercenaries. Fortunately, she hadn't said 'release the psycho,' but it was clear Shepard was considering it.

He'd objected strenuously, knowing that if she invoked 'Spectre Authority' someone was going to get hurt.

No, someone—many people—were going to get _dead_. And that wasn't acceptable.

"I'd like to talk to her," Shepard had declared thoughtfully. News that the asari councilor was leaning on him to release the nutjob did not seem to surprise Shepard, but he caught a discreet roll of her eyes. Clearly someone didn't have much good feeling for the asari.

He agreed: anyone who wanted Jona Sederis running around clearly had no idea what they were asking for. Or maybe they just didn't care as long as _they_ were safe. It was like that with politicians, Bailey thought with a sigh.

What could he do? Let Shepard talk to Sederis, of course. Shepard wasn't stupid, and he couldn't see her letting Sederis out of jail. Not if she knew the asari would go on a rampage.

After two hours, he began to think that maybe, just maybe, Shepard had given up on whatever scheme she'd been working on.

At two hours eighteen minutes, she called him.

" _Bailey. It's Shepard,_ " she announced.

"Shepard. I hope you talked to Sederis? You can see that she's crazy."

" _I did. On both counts._ " Shepard's sigh was audible, and there was an odd quality in the pause before she spoke again. " _Bailey. I want you to let her go._ "

"What?" Bailey asked, hoping he'd misheard her.

" _I said, let her go,_ " Shepard repeated quietly. " _I want you to release Jona Sederis from C-Sec custody. It's…necessary._ "

"Shepard, that woman's nuts," Bailey protested, narrowing avoiding telling Shepard that, clearly, crazy was catching and she might want to get it looked at.

" _I know._ "

"And she isn't gonna play nice when she gets out." He could see it now: murder and mayhem _everywhere_ and would the Spectres or the Council take the blame for it when it happened? No, they'd pin the blame firmly on C-Sec. On _him._

" _I'm aware._ "

"And you _still_ want her out? Dammit, Shepard, the woman's certifiable."

" _Bailey._ " The single word was firm gentle, but firm. He couldn't call it reassuring.

She didn't have to explicitly invoke Spectre authority, but that was what she did. In one word, she'd released a psychotic killer to go about her lunatic business.

Damn, it was a bad day. And the days that followed would be worse.

Baily growled, pounding a fist on his desk. "Fine. I'll authorize the release. Shepard, this is on your head." He couldn't help saying it, snarling it at her. It had been hard enough putting Sederis _into_ the cooler. Now that she was out…

Another introspective silence before Shepard answered neutrally, " _I think I'll still be able to sleep at night, Bailey. Thanks for your help_."

'Thanks for your help' his ass.

Shepard severed the connection, leaving Baily frowning at the comm unit on his desk. She could…sleep with that on her conscience? He'd always had the impression that Shepard was out to save as many as she could as she blazed a path that led, at its terminus, to the Reapers.

Maybe he was wrong. Or maybe war, seeing Earth burning, had changed her.

He shook his head slowly, but authorized the release.

The more he thought about it though, as he started at the ugly confirmation 'Release authorized for Sederis, Jona' followed by that day's date, the more he began to wonder. Shepard _wasn't_ the type to unleash mad-dog killers. She had a history of cleaning up Citadel messes beginning as early as 2183.

He didn't trust her Spectre motivations; mistrust of (and, often, dislike for) Spectres came with working for C-Sec. But he might be willing to trust the woman behind the title.

Bailey jumped as an alert flashed across his terminal. He scanned the details quickly, then sat back in his chair, trying to keep his thoughts from spinning out of control. There were no names mentioned, not yet, but there was enough for him to know—reading between the lines—that Jona Sederis was dead. And, the report continued, it smacked of an internal power shift in her organization.

Bailey took a deep breath. Jona Sederis, one of the most dangerous prisoners he'd had in lockup, someone whom the asari Councilor had been pressuring him to release, was dead. Dead before she even got off the Presidium. Dead as she'd stepped into an elevator that would have taken her, presumably, to join her thugs.

And Shepard had 'requested' the release.

' _I think I'll still be able to sleep at night, Bailey.'_

Confirmation of Sederis' identity followed within fifteen minutes, as did ballistics evidences suggesting the assassination was more along the lines of 'internal restructuring.'

Gang politics.

Grimly, he pulled up the report from the Presidium shooting.

Jona Sederis—dead—Eclipse Mercenaries.

A pack of vorcha—dead—all Blood Pack, the one dead from a broken neck seemed to have had rank among the pack.

A Spectre, an assassination and an apartment full of dead vorcha.

Eclipse and Blood Pack. Sounded like Shepard was helping someone tidy house.


	111. Tenterhooks

"Hey," Shepard hesitated in the doorway until Alenko's battered, tired face broke into a hesitant smile. Taking this as a welcome, she stepped into the suite, cast a glance around. She was no expert on hospitals (spending a considerable amount of energy avoiding them), but it struck her as a 'good' one.

"You just missed snack time—but maybe that's a good thing." Alenko's grimace was eloquent.

"Yeah, the warden was _really_ clear on food regulatory policy here."

"Yeah?"

"I was briefed before being allowed in." It was short, vague, and Shepard felt comfortable in her interpretation of the _spirit_ of the injunctions.

She padded over to the bedside, glad to see the livid bruises beginning to turn green. The effect was grotesque, but green bruises were healing bruises.

"Too bad. Hospital food is hospital food."

"You want me to spring you, say the word." Then, Shepard winked at him, perched at the side of his bed as though to have a better look. She was closer than she felt comfortable with, but knew the power of humor, and 'sneaky' was usually humorous.

Alenko's eyes slid to the hand nearest to him. Deliberately, with great care, Shepard inched from the cargo pocket of the thigh nearest to him …

…a single twin-pack of snack cakes. The sight of them brought back memories of an empty box, a chocolate cupcake, and a benched pilot. In short, better days. Once the contraband was free, she slipped it beneath his coverlet. "You're looking better, Alenko," she announced judiciously, standing up again.

He had no doubt that _no one_ saw the transfer of snack cake, nor did he have a doubt that Shepard had not actually _adhered_ to rules about contraband. She had…exercised Spectre privileges (or selective listening). By this point she could probably blow up a major city, claim 'Spectre business' and be left to continue conducting her business.

It was good to see her finally allowed to do her job. Pity it was so late in the game.

"Yeah, definitely feeling better." The cakes would be a great comfort, if they wasn't discovered. He wouldn't let them be discovered: they would be consumed with gratitude later. He knew, deep down, she would have done much the same for Williams…but she had come to see him. She hadn't shut him out of her life completely.

"Good." Shepard frowned at him. The traditional question of 'are you all right' seemed a little too well-worn. "At least they gave you a room with a view." For something to do she prowled over to it.

And the view was much improved for her standing there. He knew that, unless he said something, she would find a pretext for leaving. They were not exactly…square…after Horizon.

The Asari Consort's words about Shepard, self-destruction, and death all alone in some shithole hit him with the force of a charging krogan. He didn't believe the Consort was prescient, but it seemed a likely forecast.

He couldn't let that happen; if delaying tactics would work, he'd play every last one and damn however awkward the moments were. If she was chipping away at her own life…he could try to glue the pieces back on. Sort of the opposite of Ulysses' wife: he'd weave at night what she unpicked by day. At least, until a better plan could be set up and enacted.

"Lots to do?" he asked, when she began shifting like a nervous bird.

"Yes." She seemed to take it as dismissal. She tried and failed to smile, then started to cross the room.

"Wish you could stay."

She stopped dead a little beyond his bed, like a geth whose servos suddenly froze. "Do you want me to?"

"Yes." Shepard turned around, expression set in unreadable lines, then fetched a chair from the wall and sat down. "Did she get away?"

Shepard did not need context. "No." The very finality in the word spoke volumes.

"You look really tired."

"You're not exactly sunshine and daffodils, either. If you start feeling worn out, tell me."

"Well, you're not exactly dragging me onto the dance floor; I think I'll be okay." Her mouth, no longer quirked with that odd little scar, didn't even twitch. He knew, instinctively, that any smile right now would be wrung out of her at great cost to herself.

It was soothing, in some ways, awkward in others, to sit there by Alenko's bedside. There were things unsaid, complex subjects that would in all likelihood touch off an argument. But it was quiet, and the view was peaceful. But the peace and quiet seemed poisonous to Shepard, raised concern that, while good for her soul, it would dull her edge, an edge she needed now more than ever before.

"So, what's on your mind?" Alenko asked.

"Everything goes back to Earth. To the war." She got to her feet again. "It's not bedside conversation."

"Who do you have on your ground team?"

"Garrus, Liara, and Vega. You remember him?"

"I remember. And I know that tone," Alenko settled back indulgently. "That's the tone you use when someone hands you a piece of clay and says 'here, finish this'."

"He needs some stabilization before I can do much with him."

"Sounds like a real charmer."

Shepard's mouth twisted. "He calls me Lola."

" _Lola_? What the hell for?"

Shepard turned, her mouth flickering between a reluctant smile and the line of firm control she'd worn for most of this interview. She shrugged, "He says I look like a Lola."

Alenko had a bolt of inspiration that pushed away his falling opinion of Vega: a man would have to be _blind_ to think Shepard looked like a 'Lola'. "Dumbass."

It worked: the smile stayed fix for a moment, a rueful sort of smile for a comment that was true enough for her to not want to deny it. "He's a good soldier."

"One can be a good soldier _and_ a dumbass." His tone said 'case and point', in reference to himself.


	112. Bittersweet

Shepard was glad to have stopped in to see Alenko, but the instant she was out of the hospital, back on the Presidium Commons, she found herself back where she started before she went in.

She could have chewed the salarian's merchant's face off. No exaggeration: she felt, at that moment, as though she could literally strip the flesh away from his bones using nature's first (and questionable for the purpose) weapon.

He hadn't even responded to reasoned argument: _can you_ eat _rare black-market artifacts? No. Then, if credits fail, what value will they be? Food. Medical supplies._ Those _would have value._

But, no, the salarian couldn't see a galaxy in which monetary values truly changed. He could see a galaxy without credits, but not a galaxy where luxuries—apart from vice items—or rarities were nearly meaningless. He wasn't a soldier.

And he was so short-lived, she thought sourly, that this whole thing could be over for him so much faster than for anyone else. Vega and Williams were right: the Citadel was a master deception. It made you believe it was unconquerable, enduring, safe.

It was all a lie, as Shepard knew too well, but it was a comfortable lie so people believed in it.

She sighed when her omnitool beeped to signal an incoming message. She cued it for audio only, raising a hand to her ear in the galactic indicator 'I'm on the line—hold on a minute.' Not everyone used it, but Shepard preferred to, having, in her past, tried to instigate conversation only to find out the individual to whom she wanted to speak was already in another conversation. "Shepard."

" _Shepard! It's General Oraka._ "

She didn't even bother asking how he got her contact information. These old generals, she thought blandly, always seemed to be very well connected. "Yeah…I'm still working that thing. You know, that salarian's a real asshole."

" _Cloaca, actually, and I sometimes think that's why they're so jumpy._ "

Shepard snorted wondering if she dared to laugh at that or not. On the one hand…

" _I just wanted to thank you. That_ salarian," and it was obvious the old general truly wanted to call him something unflattering, " _just contacted me. Said everything was in order. I called my C-Sec contacts and—"_

"Gen-General…I didn't do it," Shepard said blankly.

" _What?_ " She could almost hear his mandibles waving. " _That's…odd…"_

"To say the least. He was pretty damn set on compensation and I certainly haven't turned anything up."

" _Compensation?_ " Oraka's frown became more apparent, even over the audio-only link, "… _what did he want? The little_ —" Oraka made a coughing noise that, Shepard realized, must be an idiomatic slur. Translator software improved in fits and starts, but sometimes something was just _too_ idiomatic to translate…which usually meant the word-sounds got lost, too. " _—pardon my language, but he seemed quite happy with whatever you gave him…"_ Then, as if suspicion had suddenly nipped him, " _What did he want from you?_ "

"Black market stuff—rare items, you know. Things that'll have value when credits fail."

Oraka's snort was almost exactly the same one she'd given. " _You know…I think I may know who got involved."_ And his tone was very warm. Shepard could almost see a complacent smile settling over his features. " _I knew she still cared._ "

Shepard choked back a laugh. If 'she' was the 'she' that had sent him spiraling into a drunken fit of sullen misanthropy (and defamation of character) because she 'couldn't be what he wanted [her] to be', then Shepard had to wonder at his assessment of the situation.

Or maybe she shouldn't. After all, it was possible to entertain fondness for someone even if one couldn't—or wouldn't—exercise it. Didn't _she_ know something about that? "Are we talking about the same person…because I thought she _left_?"

" _She did. But she came back—all settled and set up. Saw her just this afternoon…huh…_ "

Which made Shepard suspect that the old turian had probably checked on the Consort…though whether or not he remained a client…it was possible, but somehow she didn't think so. She didn't doubt he'd be a staunch and loyal friend…but at risk of putting himself in the position to be hurt again…no.

It was bittersweet, in a way, though Shepard felt certain that, however fond the Consort had seemed of Oraka, she would destroy Shepard's whimsical romantic cant on the situation.

She rather liked the idea of the old turian general, a staunch friend with a few burning embers for a woman he could never really have, steadfast, loyal…but never accepting anything that was not freely given.

" _Shepard? Shepard are you there_?" Oraka demanded, his voice going up a note in concern over her sudden unresponsiveness.

"Sorry, zoned out. I've got a friend in the hospital and I just got out from visiting."

" _Oh. I see. Well, at least he's alive to recover, yes?_ " It was less of a question and more of a bolstering statement.

Maybe _that_ was why she felt so whimsical…and she remembered, vaguely, chiding Alenko: _so, you're a romantic. You sign on for the dream, Alenko?_

She didn't remember his exact response, but the memory of the conversation brought a pleasant warmth with it. "Yeah, that's—wait, who said 'he'?" Shepard demanded.

Oraka's chuckle was a little _too_ knowing. " _Just a hunch from your tone. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got logistics to look over…and a nice thank-you note to write. Stay strong Shepard, and when you go back out there come out swinging._ "

"Same to you, sir." Shepard disconnected the call, frowning.

Shepard looked out over the Presidium, peaceful and serene with its lakes, its fountains, the well-dressed people moving this way and that on their own business. She couldn't help but wonder at the Consort's motives. Was it the reasonable, understandable acquiescence to necessity and taking up of initiative that had prompted her intervention?

Or was it, maybe, some small soft feeling for the old turian general who couldn't have her?


	113. Resolve

"I did want to know one thing," Shepard frowned, licking her teeth thoughtfully.

"Hit me."

"I told you we were square, Alenko. No, just…what happened to Bear? You know, my Bear…after the Normandy went down."

That was not the question he had expected, but it warmed his heart a little: he remembered passing off the electric pink, badly stuffed carnival prize to Shepard.

"A couple grieving marines put him in your coffin. Figured you might want him…you know."

Shepard nodded slowly, apparently finding the answer agreeable. "Don't think I could stomach having him in someone else's room. No offense. Should I come by again, if I have time?"

She always asked. It was clear, by now, that she didn't expect 'no'…but she wanted to be certain. With things as unstable, as uncertain, as they were these days, he was glad to be able to give her a little certainty.

"I'd like that. If you have the time."

A faint flash of pleasure crossed her face before she silently withdraw.

Alenko settled back. He always felt restless after Shepard visited—though not because of her presence. Carefully he sat up, then eased himself off the bed. He _could_ get up and walk about, could even move with a few degrees of freedom and ever-lessening discomfort, but the worried look always on her face kept him in bed and quiet when she came to visit.

The fact that she usually stopped to see Thane often meant that he got a warning from the nurse who kept checking up on him (and apparently thought that anything keeping him from over-exerting himself was worth a heads-up). So he was always tucked in when Shepard made her appearance.

He had had a cordial visit from Thane himself some time ago, and had several conversations since. Alenko was certain Shepard had nothing to do with this. The drell always seemed to know when Shepard was on the Citadel, and only made contact when she _wasn't_.

Alenko wasn't sure how to feel about this, except that Shepard apparently did not want to give him distressing news, anything that might make him foolish. She wasn't giving him enough credit, but he knew that she would have done the same thing for Williams. Shepard knew people around her tended to get hurt or killed. If he had any sort of fortitude he would sever ties with her, in case something bad _did_ happen. He didn't want to be another death hanging around her neck.

But by the same token, just as he worked himself up to consider doing this thing, to push her away so firmly that the blow of further damage to himself wouldn't hurt her so badly…then she would visit, there was small talk, updates on old friends, even a few jokes, though all humor now was reserved—Earth was still fresh, still burning. She'd visit, and he'd have to start resolving himself all over again. So clearly that wise course of action wasn't ever really going to happen.

He was ready to get out of bed, get back to _doing_ things. Physical things. Soldier things. He suspected that it might take a little more time to see if she would be receptive to having him aboard her ship. It was one thing to visit a friend in the hospital. It was quite another to let the one who accused her of being a traitor (among other things) back on her boat.

He wanted to groan: that meeting had wrenched quite a few things out of him that he now wished he hadn't said. He'd meant them at the time…but at the heart of the matter he'd simply recoiled from an impossible event, as one recoiled from a snake.

Alenko walked over to the window, leaned on it as he gazed out over the Presidium. Udina was getting pushy for an answer to the Spectre question. In a way, he wanted to recoil from that, the way he'd recoiled from Shepard on Horizon. Him? A Spectre? But part of him wondered if it might not be a good thing: after all if Shepard refused to let him reassign to her post he could possibly use Spectre-ship to help in other ways. Every little bit helped.

There it was: his answer. Every little bit helped. At least there was one thing he could settle.

…though why Udina wanted him as a Spectre, specifically, was…strange. The Councilor knew Alenko was in Shepard's corner, had been before and after Horizon. There was no love lost between Shepard and Udina, so making one of Shepard's cabal of cohorts a Spectre was…odd.

 _Former_ cohorts, he reminded himself sternly: he had not been reinstated into her voluntarily-taking-you-into-battle good graces yet. Alenko bit his lip—Udina wasn't the type to shake grudges—the old dislike had to be in there _somewhere_ , just covered up during this time of war. He might be able to play that…if he could think of a way to do so.

Shepard had been vindicated in her assertions about the Reapers, so the accusations of her being unstable were gone. She'd submitted to Alliance custody and later been reinstated…so that made things more 'okay.'

If he could think of an airtight reason to present to the world…

…but there it was. He didn't need an airtight reason to present to the world, or the galaxy: he was being called to serve. When one was called to serve either one did or one didn't. There was his answer: the call had come. He didn't feel ready, he didn't feel capable…

…but he would not be the first Spectre with this sort of non-confidence.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

The door hissed open and he knew it was Udina: the man never knocked, cleared his throat, sent word that he was here. He just walked in like it was his own office.

Alenko responded in kind, no preamble, no warning. "I'll do it."

"Good man."

Alenko hoped so.


	114. Regret

Sha'ira looked around the interior of her private chambers. They were not the same ones she'd previously occupied, but she flattered herself that they were nicer, if smaller. At least there were fewer bare white walls. Even some of her original attendants—her entourage as she thought of them—had come back. Those who had survived. But there were new girls as well, their auras soft and sweet, like the little blossoms on a Thessian lilac bush.

Not her favorite flower, nor an appropriate metaphor, as it did not lend itself to life in a vase, but since she wasn't _sharing_ her thoughts…

She took a deep breath, peering out the window over the Presidium from behind the misty lavender curtains. Lavender. They were once pink. She had to wonder if that meant that she was getting close to the next stage of her life…or if the new cant of décor hinted at the horrible realities beyond the Citadel's lovely nebula.

Her terminal chimed gentle, the soft spectrum of chimes selected specifically because it would not startle her if she had company. "Melia. What is it?" she asked.

The VI appeared, her hands demurely folded. "You have one unread message, Madame, from Capt. Shepard, Special Tactics and Reconnaissance."

"Oh?" That was a bit of a surprise, but only a bit. After all, hadn't she heard about Shepard just recently? "Bring it up, please."

The VI held up her hands, interfacing with the terminal. Between the coded digits appeared a kind of round space, like a mirror, upon which the message appeared.

 _Madame Consort: Thanks for the help. Shepard._

Sha'ira chuckled to herself. She didn't know what Shepard wanted with the Blue Suns—she couldn't believe it was a falling standard of comrades—but she'd wanted them. Then again, with Aria T'Loak on the station, that might have something to do with it.

Sha'ira half-closed her eyes in thought. Yes…yes, Aria was an opportunist. Shepard needed all the help—or cannon fodder—she could get. The patterns were there in history, just as they were here in the present. It was nice of Shepard to send a note—which meant she'd spoken to Septimus and either he'd been explicit in his declarations or simply implied.

It had been delightful to bump into him. She hadn't gone looking for him, of that she was certain…but she'd come across him anyway. And it had been nice to stop and chat, to relish the attention of passersby as she enjoyed the old turian's company.

A genteel knock on the door to her chambers. "Come in."

One of her bevy of attendants—a human girl called Patience—tiptoed in, carrying a letter.

A handwritten letter on paper. Someone who knew her, then. Her favorite kind of message was one touched by the writer's hand, caressed by fingers as it was folded, and with the letters occasionally smudged. She took it, admiring the thick paper of the envelope. She knew effort put into pleasing her when she saw it.

She slit the envelope open without asking who it was from—she had her suspicions—and Patience withdrew softly, the door clicking shut to mark her exit.

The paper was thick, too, silvery and slightly slick to the touch, embossed along the top and bottom in blue flowers. She didn't recognize them, but she recognized the handwriting. Even though the scripts were asari, the penstrokes made them rigid, bringing a touch of the owner of the pen to them.

Septimus had been doing this for a long time. He didn't actually _speak_ the dialect, nor could he _read_ it. But there was a great variety of translational software and he had one that allowed him to take his own dictated thoughts and translate them into the written text of another species.

Generally it was the tool of a diplomat, but she'd always found it pleasant to watch the gentle rolling scripts articulated by a turian whose alphabet was every bit as angular and uncompromising as the people who created it.

 _It occurred to me that progress in a certain quarter came about because of your intervention. You have my thanks. As always, your servant Gen. Septimus_

Sha'ira reread the note again. It was not uncommon for Septimus to be brief. He was a soldier and decidedly not a poet. He hadn't used a proper greeting to head a letter since…well, since he decided he didn't know how to address her. Her given name was too informal, her title too formal, so when there was nothing to say, true to turian belief, nothing was said and he got to the point.

He'd stopped signing it simply 'Septimus' at about the same time…but hadn't withdrawn into the formality of title and surname. Just a little distance to protect himself.

She bit the inside of her lip, looking at the bold letters. Hurting him had been…difficult. But she'd had no choice.

It was ironic, in a way. She could not be what he'd once wanted her to be…and now he would not be what she wanted. The galaxy was such an ironic place for those who lived long enough to watch the patterns. True, he'd wanted her to give up everything and be _his_ …that was asking too much. It wouldn't last, sweet as it might have been while it did, and it would take longer to build her business and clientele back up after having been a wife. Short-lived species had funny ideas, sometimes, due to their lack of perspective.

Now, though, she had his friendship, his support…and nothing else. His time, the warmth he brought with him, certain small, shared pleasures were no longer hers to enjoy. He'd put away that which had offended—his heart and the demands it made—and that was a shame.

She was too worldly and practical to pine, too old and experienced to feel hurt…but she did miss seeing his name on her client registry.

She didn't pursue the implications of the thought.


	115. Uncomfortable

EDI cocked her head, blinked several times at Shepard—which Shepard found odd, since EDI didn't need to keep contaminants out of her eyes. "I am running scenarios in my head to analyze Jeff's behavior."

"Is he sick?"

"No. He is physically fine, relative to himself. I believe he has a strong emotional attachment to me…"

Shepard suddenly wished she had not opened this discussion.

"…but he has not stated it to anyone."

Commitment. EDI wanted commitment. From Joker.

…hadn't EDI been very explicit about her relationship with Joker? Something about a symbiotic something-or-other and not a…something about hormone-driven courtship?

"Commander, you have firsthand sexual experience," EDI began calmly.

Shepard turned her choke of shock at the blunt statement—and, indeed, her intense desire to blush—into a sort of coughing fit. EDI's remark also shattered the spinning sensation growing inside her head at the implications. EDI…wanted an emotional attachment. A two-sided one.

Shepard recoiled mentally: her personal life—in _that_ arena, at least—was not something she'd _ever_ felt the need to discuss.

With _anyone_.

 _Ever_.

"How do you tell when someone is romantically invested in you?"

It was a good thing she'd declared this a 'walking conversation.' "Uh how-how do you mean?" She did not believe EDI had loose lips—anything the AI let slip would be out of genuine innocence of sharing restricted information.

EDI considered, as though trying to reframe the question.

"You mean 'how do I know if someone loves me'? In the, ah…"

"This subject makes you uncomfortable."

"Yes, very." But Shepard chuckled as she said it. "My, uh, _experience_ was somewhat…atypical."

"Because he was also…a soldier?"

Shepard knew that EDI _meant_ to say 'also Alliance, a subordinate, and sharing your posting.' "…yeah, so you know this isn't something anyone else hears about, right?"

EDI nodded. "I understand the delicacy of the situation, yes. The data is strongly encrypted and filed under 'Classified—personal'." After a long pause. "I would never tell."

"You mind if I ask how…?"

EDI smiled, more because this is what her observations indicated a human would do, and it was clear that Shepard needed the reassurance of a recognizable human expression as opposed to bland, somewhat detached, interest. "You did not elect to keep photographs of Urdnot Wrex, the late Ashley Williams, Dr. T'Soni, or any of your other crewmen or cohorts on your desk. I assumed, therefore, that since you seemed desirous to have the photograph and equally desirous of keeping the fact that you had it to yourself, it had particular emotional significance."

"And here I thought I was discreet."

"You are. It was not a detail I felt it necessary to share with anyone else."

Shepard stopped, frowning. "Cerberus would have loved to have something like that on me…thank you."

"Think nothing of it. But my question still stands, if you please. I will bear in mind your declaration that your experiences were atypical."

Shepard sighed, walked over to the railing overlooking the lake and leaned on it. "When someone is emotionally invested in you…they like to be around you, spend time with you. And not just…not just doing things you don't really want an audience for. Most couples get to do things like…like sitting on the couch and watching movies, or…or going kayaking." Shepard shook her head. "We had to settle for filling up the late-night hours when long habit woke us up to make rounds of the ship. I think it kind of…crept up on us. Now, my parents…" Shepard stopped abruptly.

EDI lay a hand on her shoulder, which Shepard took as a sign to continue.

"My parents would go check the mail in the evenings. Just walk the quarter mile or so to the mailbox, holding hands and just…being together. Some people might say it's evidenced by…by giving presents or spending money on you. But that's not my observation."

Shepard closed her eyes. She wanted to append that one should not assume 'love' and 'sex' were the same thing, but she did not. Part of her still wondered if it was a mistake _she'd_ made. Then she wondered, briefly, if there was any point saying it to EDI…then decided she did not want to know.

"And chemistry always counts for something," she added in lieu of her original thought.

"Ah. I see. There are a number of pharmaceuticals I can inject to simulate the desired emotional state—"

"No!" Shepard yelped, unsure if EDI was joking or not. She couldn't take the risk that EDI was completely serious in the suggestion. "No, not, no…no no no no…" Shepard couldn't stop the negating word from coming out of her mouth.

Was this was it felt like to be Alenko, all those years ago? Her mouth kept moving despite commands to _stop talking now_!

"No…if it's _simulated_ then it's fake. It's…not real. It won't mean anything. Just…relax. Do something simple, something you both like—you both like humor," Shepard gesture in a 'there you go' sort of way. Any puzzlement she might feel at apparently setting up her pilot with his ship was overwhelmed by having this conversation at all.

EDI silently processed for a moment—most likely scanning the entertainment guides, Shepard thought. "Do you think he would like ' _The Man Who Hung Himself_ '? It appears to be about an amorous plastic surgeon."

"EDI, the important thing is to have a good time, wherever you go. If you're having fun he probably will, too." Shepard wished EDI had gone to someone else for advice. She began to feel as if she was digging herself a grave…until the full implication of the show's title hit her.

"Then…the outcome is an unknown quality. But you are saying I should attempt it anyway."

Shepard nodded. "No one ever fell in love without being a little bit brave." _That_ , at least, was true. A truth substantiated by a needle-like pierce of pain in her heart.

"I see. I believe you have improved my chances, Shepard. Thank you."


	116. Whet One's Appetite

"I knew it," a flanged voice announced smugly from the doorway.

Alenko jumped, nearly wrenching his back as he straightened from his latest bout of calisthenics. Leaning on the doorframe, tall and lanky (with what was probably sardonic amusement on his face) was none other than Garrus Vakarian, turian to his boots and Shepard's man to the marrow.

It surprised him, therefore, that Garrus didn't seem particularly hostile; Alenko had expected hostility. After all, Garrus had been on the disaster that was Horizon. "Garrus."

"Faker," Garrus chuckled, his mandibles waving vaguely. When he didn't push himself off the doorframe, Alenko decided he was waiting for an invitation to come in or get lost.

"Uh…come in?"

The turian did so. "The way Shepard tells it, you're laid up and not getting out anytime soon. And what do I see before me? I suppose males playing for a female's sympathy is a cross-species thing."

Alenko gave a hollow chuckle, still wondering where all this was going. "If she thinks I can't get into trouble, she won't worry about me getting into trouble. She doesn't need that."

"That's true enough," the turian agreed seriously. "She's got enough on her plate. So. _Are_ you doing better?"

"Sure. Up and about. They even let me tie my own shoes," Alenko answered.

"Tied shoes are overrated. Ratches do just as well."

Alenko snorted again. "What can I say? Five fingers makes things complicated."

"I always wondered how humans and asari coped with all those extra digits."

"We all have our burdens."

"Uh-huh." Garrus' rumbling laugh, accompanied by the banal banter, made Alenko uneasy.

"Hadn't expected to see you."

"Do I need a reason to check on a former teammate who landed himself in the hospital?" Garrus asked innocently. He abruptly sighed, shaking his head. "I do think you're an asshole. But everyone has their moments—Shepard inclusive. You're still a comrade. And as someone who's made stupid or badly-thought-out decisions before…I'm not throwing stones. I came down because Shepard made it sound like you were on your deathbed. Which is _clearly_ not the case."

The words left Alenko greatly reassured. He ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I figured she'd worry less that way."

"And the sympathy is nice."

"Sympathy is very nice. More importantly, it's easier to, you know, try to patch things up when one of you isn't up to a fight."

"Good move." Garrus dropped into the visitors' chair, sprawling comfortably so his spurs didn't get hung up on furniture not meant to accommodate a turian frame. "Ugh. These chairs."

"How're things?" It was badly worded, but the turian understood.

"Pretty bad. Shepard says Earth took it hard. Kar'shan's practically gone, Palaven lost two million the first day and five the next. It's going to be really bad, soon."

If turians had death tolls in the low millions at outset, 'pretty bad all over' was an understatement. He wanted to ask how many days the Reapers had been on Palaven, but knew better. Garrus didn't need to be reminded that time was ticking and death tolls rose exponentially with every day that passed.

Alenko found the sense of chafing under restriction gnawing on him again. Usually he could tune it out, but at times like this…

"Who's on ground crew?" Shepard didn't talk business unless she could help it, and Alenko was dying for news—not the least because he wanted to know who was handling the galactic ball at the moment.

"Well, she's got me. She's got some kid she picked up on Earth. James Vega. Not bad, good bullet magnet. Bit standoffish, but he falls in if she glares," Garrus shrugged.

Alenko snorted. Most people did. He remembered Vega.

"She's got Liara." For a moment it sounded like Garrus was going to add something but, at the last minute, refrained. "Aaaand that's it. We're not exactly fully staffed, but the ship's VI handles most of the day-to-day running. I'm surprised she hasn't told you any of this. It's not exactly classified."

"She doesn't want to slow recovery by worrying me," Alenko said sourly.

"I'll see if I can't get her to ease back on that."

"You'd be a real friend if you did."

"Tell me about it," Garrus answered blandly. "What about you? She didn't say how you got banged up, just that you did."

"Cerberus mech on Mars. Knocked me around pretty good. We thought the thing was down and dead—didn't know it was a mech until it climbed out of a burning shuttle wreck." Alenko couldn't stop the shudder that ran through him.

"Uh-huh." This seemed to clear something up for Garrus, but damn if Alenko could tell what that was.

"So…" Alenko didn't know what to say next. Part of him wanted to ask if Garrus had family, if they were okay…but it just didn't seem like a good idea.

"You got family on Earth?" Garrus saved him the trouble.

"Yeah. You got family on Palaven?"

"Yeah." After a few moments of silence, Garrus got to his feet. "Well, keep at it. Get better and you can join in the galactic craziness. According to Joker, we're busier than a one-legged ninja in an ass-kicking competition."

"There's a visual, and that definitely sounds like Joker. Ugh, I would _kill_ to be busy right now. You know they won't even let me roll bandages?"

"Damn. Well, if they let you out on light duty and you need to be busy, there's plenty of need of medics down in the refugee camps. That'll keep you hopping for as long as you can take it."

"That bad?" Alenko asked, frowning.

"Yeah. That bad." The turian shook his head, then clapped Alenko's shoulder. "Get better. Get out of here."

"Will do." Alenko leaned against his bed as the turian left. As if he wasn't already chafing to get out of here.

Alenko narrowed his eyes in concentration. In violation of doctor's orders, a faint blue-purple sheen crawled fleetingly across his hand.


	117. Knife

" _What's the social significance of a man passing on his knife?" Shepard asked, as she and Garrus sat in the mess hall. She was picking at her rations, disinterested and knowing she had better get over the disinterest that loss of friends, or even good acquaintances, inevitably brought. If she didn't, she'd starve before the war was over._

" _Depends on the circumstances," Garrus answered, looking up to find Shepard's expression paler than usual and drawn. "Why?"_

 _Shepard produced the talon from her gear and set onto the table. In the full array of artificial lights, it was obvious that the knife had seen much use, being scarred and pitted, but the blade itself remained glitteringly sharp. "Cross-species transfer. I'm just holding it until I can get it where it needs to be. The recipient…cleaned up a bit of a family embarrassment."_

 _Garrus considered as he looked at the knife. "Well, I guess the closest way for me to explain it is this: he's saying defend yourself, fight your war, and do it with honor and my blessing. That's the gist of it—you'd kind of have to be a turian to get the full impact." He waved vaguely_

" _Right." Shepard nodded at this, but continued to frown._

-J-

Shepard took the box out from under her arm, Garrus' words echoing in her head. "I was asked to bring this to you. So here it is." She opened it, held it so Alenko could easily see into it.

"What is that?" Alenko asked, straightening up. "Shepard what—"

"Relax," Shepard said flatly, closing the box and putting it on the bedside table. "It's a blessing, not a threat. It's also a dying man's request that you have it."

Alenko relaxed a little, but she could almost see the flash of a remembered knife reflected in his eyes. Some things didn't haunt one until one saw a very specific trigger. "Why?"

Shepard walked over to the window. "He owed you one. This was the best he could do." Then, when Alenko did not speak, "It means, in shorthand, 'go in peace and win your damn war.'"

"Turians."

She turned to find him shaking his head, more at the cross-cultural obstruction of nuances in meaning than anything else.

"Who was he?"

Shepard was momentarily silent. She didn't have to say what hung in the air: _some things you can't un-know_.

"Shepard? I really do want to know."

"His name was Annaeus Vyrrnus," Shepard answered simply.

"Vyrrnus…" Alenko seemed to roll the sound around his mouth, then his lips thinned, his brow furrowed. When he met her eyes a moment of understanding passed between them. "I see."

"He'd hoped to convey as much in person." She produced an OSD. "Among his belongings. I was asked to pass it on."

"…what was he like?"

"He was brave. Honorable. A good turian. He implied that his brother was a less than satisfactory one. He probably would have wanted to keep score of who could steamroll the most husks, but I don't think he'd ever actually _say_ anything to that effect."

"You liked him."

"I respected him," Shepard came to sit on the foot of the bed. "I didn't know him well enough to like him. But I felt his loss."

"How did it happen?" Alenko asked.

Shepard exhaled. "He had a-a big thing, like an elcor but nastier, land on him. Crushed him. Sometimes a body's just too…damaged." She bit her lip.

Alenko was silent for some time, his mind replaying the last time he saw one of these knives. It had been in the hand of an enemy, heading for his face. Strange to think another one should come to him from the same family, but with a different message attached. It made him feel uneasy in a way he didn't think he could describe.

"New Reaper troops?" Alenko asked.

"Yeah. Several. They've got turians, two varieties of human husk, the big ones we saw on Earth, the really big ones…" Shepard's gaze occluded as if she were looking into the future. "The turian husks—call them Marauders—they bring _tactics_ to the ground troops' battles. Brutes can batter down defenses. Cannibals soak up bullets…and we haven't even seen what…" Shepard trailed off, shook herself. "I'm not supposed to be talking about this."

"Confidential information?"

"You're in a _hospital_ ," she responded sardonically, "strapped to that cot by medical red tape—to quote you. It's safe here, for the time being."

"Shepard, if you start babying me I'm going to climb out of this bed and—" he stopped. The threat to put her across his knee, while amusing, probably would not go over well. Not at this stage.

There must have been something on his face, though, because Shepard smirked and, with a toothy grin, demanded, "And _what_? You planning to—" For a moment she seemed ready to tease him, but she changed whatever she meant to say, "Dr. Michel will have your hide for getting all excited and my head for getting you riled. Counter-productive."

"Guess so." The moment of levity was gone, and he didn't think there was any getting it back.

"I don't think Annaeus would care what you did with it, as long as you _had_ it," she declared, returning to the original topic of conversation.

"I'm going to need to…to think about this," he said slowly and reached to put the box on the floor. Shepard walked over, took it from him, and placed it safely on the shelf beneath his cot. "I like it when you visit, Shepard." He declared, shifting uncomfortably. "You give me incentives to get out of here as soon as I can without relapsing."

"Glad to be of service," Shepard responded. "Take care of yourself."

"So says the woman who practically lives in combat zones." Alenko said dryly. "Be careful, Shepard."

She nodded, then left the room.

Alenko sighed, keenly aware of the knife in its box.

 _Go in peace and win your damn war_.


	118. Make Peace

Alenko took a slow breath as he activated the holo-recording. A sense of foreboding lodged in the pit of his stomach, and he found himself painfully aware of the turian standard-issue talon in its box, tucked carefully out of sight…but not out of mind.

The recording flickered, revealing a grizzled old turian wearing a red hood. Alenko tensed, his stomach knotting: he'd seen something like the hood before, long ago.

" _I'm Annaeus Vyrrnus. We've never met._ "

Alenko exhaled slowly, his muscles tensing. That settled the matter, then. He recognized the surname, recognized the hood…recognized the brother.

" _Chances are that I won't live to see you in person. I wish you'd come with your commanding officer. But our wishes rarely align themselves with our realities, so this will have to do._

" _I know of you, Major. No, I haven't been ferreting out details—your CO referred to you by rank when I made inquiries. Perhaps I should have started with why I was making inquiries._ "

The turian stopped fingering one of his mandibles. " _Damn this is awkward. I should restart the thing, but who knows if I'll have time later to get it all re-recorded. You knew my brother, and before you get all tense and turn this off, you did his family a service when you put him down._ "

A long silence followed, as if the turian were giving him time to process this. " _The war changed my brother. You wouldn't have known this, but he was on the brink of discharge before he left our military. There are only so many directions a turian biotic can go in our society. Getting out of that society is one of them, and it's what he did. The day I found out the humans let him near their children was a bad day for me. Stupid of them. Clearly there were no mothers present when the decision to use him was made._ I _could have told them they were looking at program sabotage, and he was blood kin._ "

And the turian sounded so bitter that the bitterness seemed to choke him, as if thinking that, perhaps, he should have handled his own family business.

" _It's a sore spot with me,"_ Annaeus declared quietly, " _When you and your wife can't have children of your own…it puts a perspective on things. And watching your brother fall apart, knowing what he was…that adds another. I was grateful, the day I got the news that he was dead. I hoped his spirit has found a place it could make strong._

" _I don't know what happened that day, and you'll never hear me ask. I don't know whether it was self-defense or a proactive action, whether you were protecting yourself or one of your peers. It doesn't matter to me. What I wanted to convey—and I seem to be ridiculously slow in getting to it—is that his family feels no grudges. No reason for animosity. No grudges are held on my side, brother or not._

" _Humans and turians have this in common: we both know how to hold a grudge. I've always felt it was a waste of energy, since war conflict without a grudge was so…evenly matched. But that's another letter for another soldier. If you have this, then your CO should have delivered my combat knife to you. I don't know what she knows about turian custom, but perhaps I should explain it now._

" _Give me a minute to think how I want to say this._ "

Annaeus thought, and Alenko put the recorder on the bed, drawing up his knees and wrapping his arms around them. It was strange to hear Vyrrnus' own family saying, in effect, that they held him blameless, but without saying or implying that Vyrrnus 'deserved what he got.'

Annaeus' invocation of 'program sabotage' brought shattered fragments together.

He'd said it himself, to Shepard: _you either came out a wreck, or Superman._ If Vyrrnus school of teaching was all those capable of continuing knew…the likelihood was high, reason went, that they would apply the same methods with the same casualties or washouts.

" _To a turian, his knife is his best friend—as far as pieces of equipment go. It's the first thing he reaches for after a ship crash—long story—it's the last thing he'll give up in a tight spot (equally long story, and you'll notice it didn't stay gone for long). Some say we sacrificed our own truly functional talons to become a civilization. Others say that we simply made them a construct so civilization wouldn't take offense. Doesn't matter: for my people, the military defines us, and we get attached to our gear. I don't know how it is with humans, but I think, in the course of my life, having stood on both sides of battle lines with your people, that there's enough about our people that's the same to allow this sentiment to cross over. Or not, the more I think about it, the more I think you'd have to be part of the culture to get the nuances. Dammit._

" _To pass a soldier your knife, not to borrow, but to_ have _, means you likely won't need it anymore, or that his need of it outweighs your life's worth. I'm sending you mine, now, because—"_ Something in the background of the recording changed, causing Annaeus to jerk around. " _What? No, I'll be there. Get the others assembled._ "

 _He turned back to the recorder, speaking hastily as he drew up his red hood._ " _Dammit. I have to go—I'll try to re-record this later. In short, I send my blessings with it: fight well. Kill Reapers. Take care of yourself._ "

The recording cut off, and Alenko knew that he had just seen Annaeus called to his last battle. He shivered uncomfortably. He'd never met the man, but he felt oddly as though he'd lost a friend.

The loss left a cold sort of gap in his insides. The first, he realized, of many. 


	119. Inclusion

Having a body was a (shorthand: interesting) experience. Specifically, inclusion as part of an action or series of actions provided a change in EDI's perceptions of the action in which she was involved, allowing her to detect subtle nuances she had not previously appreciated in their proper place.

The first thing she noticed was the behavior of Shepard, Vega, and Vakarian.

Vega and Vakarian had both turned to her, each on a separate occasion, as if to make adjustment to the under-armor mesh that an organic would have worn—such things often needed a second pair of hands to zip up, although newer models were experimenting with the zipper elsewhere. She knew, for a fact, that this was not uncommon: she had observed, with the previous crew, that assisting one another with armor was something organics unfailingly did. Now, she could appreciate that the checks were as much practicality as (all return data equals "care of comrade"), (all return data equals "personal investment in comrade").

Not wearing armor meant no mesh, and both men had taken a split second to frown in consternation at this aberration in the usual pre-mission routine. She wondered how or if this would have any effects on the mission, make her less a part of the team. When both men simply settled for patting her on the back—as if their assistance had been completed rather than aborted—she accepted the probability that it would not. The placeholder action seemed to be enough; it was the same action that nonverbally indicated to the one being checked over that all was well.

Shepard had, first and foremost, picked out EDI's web gear, then fitted it meticulously to the mobile platform, speaking only to indicate when or how EDI should move. Experienced hands tugged straps into place and tightened cinches, periodically—and pointlessly—asking if something was too tight or too loose. The methodical fitting seemed completely expected, since both Vakarian and Vega paid it no attention.

EDI obliged what looked like ingrained behavior. Organics liked routine, especially routine that doubled as pre-something ritual. Shepard was the unit commander and this was EDI's first time in a live-fire situation. Of course a commander like Shepard would want to be sure of equipment and of her new squadmate. It also occurred to EDI, as Shepard tapped her shoulder for her to turn around, that Shepard had lost enough rookie squadmates during her career to not want to miss this essential first-time check.

"Alright, you're good to go," Shepard announced, handing EDI a second shield generator. "Humor me."

"How much do dead batteries cost?" EDI asked promptly. "Nothing. They are free of charge."

There was a significant pause (logged: time lapse) before her squadmates gave little evidences of amusement.

EDI shifted, recording the way her web gear's balance of weight changed as she moved.

"Load up," Shepard declared, the well-worn command seemingly reflex to her as she led the way into the waiting Kodiak.

EDI had not appreciated the dimensions of the Kodiak from the viewpoint of a passenger. She knew, to any degree of accuracy one could wish for, the exact area of the crew compartment. However, seeing it, being placed in it, was (shorthand: enlightening).

Her squadmates dropped onto the seats, shifting and fidgeting as their vital signs spiked upwards again—for the second or third time since the exercise had begun. They had arrived with elevated vitals, those vitals had jumped as they began donning their armor and had, just now, jumped again.

Was it possible to say that these increasing elevations had more significance, now that she had been part of the process during which they occurred?

Perhaps.

Despite the elevated vitals, the crew seemed fairly calm as the Kodiak exited the shuttle bay and began the descent towards Eden Prime.

While Shepard had been fussing with web gear, EDI had taken the time to access the old Eden Prime reports. She had, of course, accessed everything about the place she could, when Shepard officially gave their next destination. Most of the information did not seem relevant, but she had gone over it all the same.

She was not entirely certain why she had waited until pre-mission preparation to go over the first-hand accounts, but she had. It had seemed vaguely appropriate in a way she could not quantify. She doubted she was developing the capacity for 'gut feelings' since she did not, technically, have guts. Perhaps some synthetic equivalent, then?

Shepard had lost a crewman on that mission and had taken injury, there. Perhaps it was best that Major Alenko was not present. Shepard's war against the Reapers—thought she had not known it at the time—had begun here.

Shepard's expression was (Shepard: pensive) as she restlessly got to her feet.

"This is where it all began," Dr. T'Soni noted (T'Soni: nostalgic). EDI didn't miss the way everyone in the compartment glanced at Shepard. (All return data equals "surreptitiously.")

"Yeah." Then, apropos of nothing or in response to the continued fleeting looks, "Seems like forever ago."

Vakarian snorted, crossing his arms and slouching further into his chair, "It was a bad day. I'd been busting my ass investigating Saren and the next thing I know he'd attacked a colony while I was mired in bureaucracy. " His mandibles flared in (Vakarian: annoyance) at the memory.

Shepard snorted, shaking her head in (Shepard: rueful-amusement). "You and your paperwork. Well, at this this is a straight-up fight, right?"

Vakarian grinned at Shepard. "You're so obliging about finding those."

"See? I've got your back."

EDI captured the scene for later consideration. Shepard's and Vakarian's (all return data equals "easy camaraderie") seemed to somehow edge Dr. T'Soni and Vega to the side. Dr. T'Soni's attention to the datapad in her hand increased. Vega unconsciously took a half step away from Vakarian and Shepard.

From what EDI could tell, she was the only one who noticed any of this. (Self-awareness return, shorthand: "feeling isolated.") It felt (shorthand: "strange").


	120. Disorientation

Consciousness slowly trickled back to Javik, as if it leaked into his audial canals from the outside world. His muscles protested motion as he began testing to make sure his toes and fingers all moved. The stasis pod hissed gently, bringing with it a wash of fresh air, full of alien scents.

Daylight—he assumed 'day' light—assaulted his eyes as the pod opened, leaving him squinting. A lifetime of experience forced him to move, to not _be still_. He sat up too fast, which ruined his equilibrium, leaving him to curse himself.

The world was green and blue, the air soft. He got unsteadily to his feet, knowing he was pushing himself too fast, but knowing that a soldier who went down did not generally get back up.

There was smoke on the air, and several scents he couldn't identify.

And it was too bright.

Only when he realized he was alone did he turn around. He wanted to scream, because the figures arrayed behind his stasis pod proved that luck had not favored him: the primitives had evolved. Worse, they'd evolved to make _thinking machines_.

…just stick him back in the pod…

At least he hadn't awakened to find them looming over him, peering down like scientists at a strange alien creature.

Humans. Turian. Asari. Machine.

It seemed that fate did not favor the Prothean people.

The turian gabbled at one of his comrades, the words deep in his throat, sometimes clicking, with a sort of non-sibilant exhale.

It was the female human who inclined her ear, though her bright eyes never left Javik himself. She answered back, her speech totally different, the words softer, better-suited to a fleshy mouth and mobile tongue.

The machine then gave input, again to the human female, which caused said female to shake her head slowly.

Primitives. And a machine.

Javik put his hands on the sides of his stasis pod, wondering why he felt so calm. Maybe it was residual of being in the static state? Maybe it was knowing that everything had gone wrong and he needed a new plan. Had the Reapers arrived already? Or was there still time?

His motion prompted the human female. She shrugged off several pieces of heavy-looking equipment, and spoke to what amounted to protests from her comrades.

Javik knew it was ridiculous to think he could feel his pupils contract, but he would have sworn he did: the woman carried a weapon of the Lost across her back. Not like a battle trophy, but as someone who could actually _use_ it.

Once divested of her equipment—he suspected she was a fool, and that the articles she'd shed were her weapons—she held out a hand, feet braced. He frowned at it, then decided she was offering to help him up. She was truly stupid. He hoped she hadn't bred and further reduced the possibilities for her species by adding her own genes for stupidity to it.

He accepted her hand, though. He needed to touch her, for her language if nothing else.

The information transferred in a flash, but would need time to disseminate, like a seed opening and putting out roots, stalks, leaves.

He was slower than he thought; the idea that these primitives were hostile or—worse—Indoctrinated….

Javik actually yelped when he tried to drag the human against him as a shield against her comrades. Not because he couldn't do it, but because she immediately struck back, with only a growl of impatience. All she had to do was overbalance him so he tripped against the side of his stasis pod, which was what she did. Her movements were precise and practiced, as if she'd fended off attackers before, was comfortable doing it.

A _trained_ warrior, then.

The fall ruined his equilibrium all over again, depositing him neatly on his backside. Why did his brain feel so sloshy? He took comfort from the confusion by converting it into anger.

"—okay. I think he's just testing the waters. He looks a little disconnected."

The turian warbled back at her, the asari in concert.

Oh…that _voice_ …squeaky, high-pitched…Javik's momentary weakness of 'oh, just put me back in the pod!' was also converted into embarrassment at such an idea, which also converted into anger

"Don't be cute," the human female declared, tone clipped, precise, no-nonsense. That of a leader. "You understand me, now, don't you?"

Javik rolled his tongue around in his mouth, unsure how the stiffer organ would render her language's words. It seemed clumsy. The language, not his tongue. "Yes."

"Good. I'm Captain Shepard. We can't stay here—" she balked, as if wondering how to explain the situation.

"Reapers?" he asked.

"Not on this world. Yet."

Javik wanted to groan in spirit; everything had gone wrong, horribly, disastrously _wrong_. He tried to sift the information he had about her, but it was incomplete. Language had been the important thing, not her, personally.

The turian put something in, his mandibles waving disconcertingly.

The human male finally spoke up, his words matching those the Shepard-female used, "I don't like it, Lola. He doesn't look too friendly."

Hm. Smarter than the Shepard-female, then.

"I wouldn't be feeling very friendly, either," the Shepard-female answered evenly. "You've got two choices: stay here, by yourself, and take your unarmed chances or you can come with me to my ship. I'll explain everything there."

There were not any other options. Javik studied the Shepard-female for a moment, then glanced at her companions. Her attention on him never wavered, as if she somehow suspected he was measuring his chances of taking over her ship and crew. "Very well."

The Shepard-female must have had a communication device somewhere, for she spoke to the air with pauses in which someone could respond.

Javik's heart sank further as he watched the primitive flying machine swoop in to take him and his dubious rescuers—he hated the word, or the implication that he'd needed rescue—away from this now-strange blue-and-green world.


	121. Litmus

The vessel belonging to the humans was so full of feedback after the stasis pod that it made Javik's head ache. He could imagine his skull cracking, the skin splitting, letting his brain matter pour out in an oozing gush. The thought made him shudder, though he'd rather have died than show it. So he marched along, aware that the humans who'd clustered around the Shepard-female (and who'd caused the asari to start yelping with indignation) were there for her protection.

So, she was regarded highly, this Shepard-female. Perhaps the commander of this vessel? It seemed likely.

The Shepard-female motioned him to go through an entryway before pausing to speak to her comrades. "What?"

One of the human males garbled at her. Javik didn't understand, but the Shepard-female seemed to.

"We'll have that discussion with our friend here. Have doc grab me a translator unit, would you?" the Shepard-female looked at him. "We'll talk in a moment." With that, she shut the door between them, leaving him mercifully alone.

It almost seemed as if she knew he needed the time to himself…which was foolish. Of him to not have shaken his off yet. For her to be so soft.

The room seemed to be a storage space and it carried a strong essence, but was quiet. He could feel the hum and pulse of the ship, smell the artificial staleness of recycled air.

Javik knelt near the strongest tug of the information, lay his palm against the floor.

Ideas blossomed in his mind. A…krogan—krogan?!—pulled from an artificial womb. The Shepard-female had been the midwife for that birth. He could sense her presence amidst the chaos of the krogan, who was thick upon the place. His presence was old; he would have been a strong one to leave such a clear imprint of himself. But he was not…natural…hence the need for the tank—

The door hissed open, leaving the Shepard-female to clear her throat, a polite request for his attention.

Javik abandoned solidifying his feedback to give her his attention. The asari stood behind her, almost crowding, blue eyes avidly fixed on him. Like a bug. A blue bug that was all eyes. Behind her were several armed human males, pheromones heavy on the air.

Ship's commander or their queen? How had humanity evolved? So far, Shepard was the only human female he'd seen.

"No one get trigger happy. You wait for my word, or Liara's."

What was a Liara?

It didn't matter. The human males all gave indications that they heard and understood, their weight settling solidly, all of them throwing off threat that if he did anything to this female they would destroy him.

If she didn't beat them to it.

The Shepard-female moved forward slowly. Javik watched her. She'd removed her helmet, giving him a good look at her soft, flabby features and bright eyes. "It's going to be alright," she announced to the room at large. "Our guest here isn't going to give us any trouble. Are you?"

She'd come within reach. "That depends on you." It was a lightning fast motion that wrapped his hand around her wrist.

Almost without thought, she cracked him across the wrist with the edge of her other hand, a practiced chop, before striking him open-palm against the chest, staggering him.

Javik tensed as he danced back, but the Shepard-female remained where she was, her hand raised for her guards to remember her orders.

 _They_ wanted to shoot him. They didn't like the threat he posed to this female.

"Not nice," the Shepard-female declared darkly.

"But necessary," Javik answered. She was a warrior, it was imprinted so deep in her that, even if she were to find herself in an era of total peace, utter stagnation, she might end up _causing_ a war because it was so much a part of her. And the war she waged predated the Reapers; her war did not require a specific opponent. She made war because war was put in her at a young age. He could sense the scars.

"Groping people is necessary?" she asked sardonically.

Javik met her eyes, those bright eyes so unlike those of her companions. "I sense fear in you. Anxiety and distress. The Reapers are winning." Her expression turned feral, not at his exposure of his weakness, but at the moment he mentioned the Reapers winning. She rejected it, wholly and utterly and would force this rejection upon the Reapers themselves.

Which was when Javik realized that this Shepard-female was subtly familiar to him. Not on a personal level, but there was something about her that was Prothean. He didn't understand it, but somewhere in her a Prothean had marked her, primed her for _this_ war rather than the one she'd been fighting. Who? How? "Which of my people spoke to you?" he demanded sharply.

"You're the first," she answered.

"Not possible. Who?" Javik insisted.

"I _don't_ intimidate easily."

He frowned at her, realized slowly that he was not 'alien' to her as he was to most of those others. He was just another sapient, reduced to the same level as the primitives surrounding her. It became obvious she was going to make him speak first. He wondered what would happen if they just stood here in silence, if this power play in front of her companions ended in her yielding to the silence and trying to begin talks again.

No, he thought, reviewing what he'd learned of her so far. She'd just leave him in here, like a prisoner rather than a guest, and silently check in on him periodically. She had nothing but time since he was an as-yet unrealized resource.

She was afflicted by an inclination to accept a little trouble now in hopes of something beneficial later. If their positions were reversed, he would have spaced her by this point, rather than let her pose a threat to his ship.

Javik knelt on the ground, settling comfortably. "What did you wish to discuss?"


	122. Exchange

The Shepard-female settled on the floor as well. She considered Javik's question before answering, "You said you 'sensed.'"

"Yes."

She frowned at him. "I can play that game, too, but it's not going to get either of us anywhere."

Was this still posturing for those under her command? Or had she effectively written them out of her perceptions, the better to focus upon him? Stupid if she had.

"All life provided clues for those who can read them," Javik answered, the need for action—or at least, learning—overriding pride. "It is in your cells. Your very DNA. Experience is a biological marker. You bear the marks of my kind."

"…yeah. I do." She bit her lip, brow furrowing as if trying to decide how to explain this.

This was getting them nowhere. Javik eyed the Shepard-female. From what he knew of her, she would actually hurt him, this time, if he grabbed at her again. Purposely and decisively. This called for diplomacy—not his strong suit. "An exchange, then." He held out his hand.

The Shepard-female eyed it suspiciously (which was wise) then, as if braced for something completely unpleasant, she held out her own.

There. She received the essence of being Prothean from a…plant? Why? _There_ …

Javik nearly yelped, but a lifetime of needing to be quiet despite stimuli urging otherwise kept him silent. The ideas about the beacon she found were…strange…made him want to recoil. It had to be something on her end.

The Shepard-female jerked her hand back, severing the link, her face ashen. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but Javik overrode her as the feedback coalesced.

"You found a beacon? You saw it all! Our destruction, our warnings! Why weren't they heeded? Why didn't you prepare for the Reapers, human?" he was shouting at her by this point. Another cycle lost, his people's careful planning derailed, by these stupid primitives that nature saw fit to elev—

"It's _Captain_ ," the Shepard-female snarled, her expression grown dark, the glassy quality of her eyes—no doubt a human response to such a 'sharing'—reducing. She looked as though she wanted to punch him. "And no one could _understand_ your warnings. That damn beacon nearly killed me."

An ugly silence fell between them, leaving Javik a moment to study the Shepard-female's experience with the beacon. Yes, it had scarred her. She was afraid of it, of it happening again. _That_ was why she was more hostile than curious…and he sensed that curiosity was a trait fostered in humans.

"Then communication is still primitive in this cycle," Javik growled.

"We pieced together what we could and delayed the invasion."

"How long?" he couldn't stop the bitterness.

"Three years."

He was hazy about how they marked time. In his cycle, time increments were based on those used on the heart-world for time immemorial. Now, though…

Well, she seemed to think three years a significant amount of time…though he sensed the bitterness in her.

"We're building a device your people designed to stop the Reapers. Do you know _anything_ about it?" the Shepard-female asked.

"No. I was a soldier, not a scientist." It was a bitter admission. He was not sure what device she was talking about, but perhaps the great thinkers left to his people had truly come up with a plan. A plan in case the original fell through…as it had.

Disappointment hung in the air around her, though her visage did not betray it. "Well, that makes two of us."

Javik grimaced at her. "Do you truly think so?"

"Clearly you don't. Enlighten me."

Javik studied the Shepard-female, rifled through what he understood about her. Loss. Anger. Fear. A brittle, brutal determination to stop the Reapers…but it wasn't enough. He could sense the softness she yet retained, which this war would beat out of her. If she was smart, she'd choose to divest herself of it before it could be torn away. Sever the limb to save the rest. "Another time."

"Fair enough."

The Shepard-female turned her attention back to the gaggle of humans at her back, giving him a few more minutes to piece together the shattered galaxy around him. He needed more information, felt stymied by lack of totality in his perceptions. Anger was beginning to burn off in the presence of so much strangeness, the gaping maw of things unknown.

"Hey," the Shepard-female prompted gently, holding something out to him. "It's a translator. So you won't feel quite so lost."

Hm. She must have a keener mind than he thought, if residue of his current mindset colored the battle he'd showed her. "I do not require your sympathy, human."

"Sympathy my ass," she retorted, a muscle in her jaw working, as though she were biting back what she really wanted to say. "It's _practicality_."

He wondered if she would throw it at him if he refused to take it. The anger hanging in the air around her, an unpleasant tanginess, made him think she might if she did not have an audience. He took the little bit of metal from her.

"Put it behind your…ear." She indicated on her own head where that would be.

Javik pressed it behind his audial well, felt the little device dig anchors into his flesh.

"Shepard?" the asari pressed, seemingly incapable of keeping quiet anymore. Heavens above, she was actually _shaking_ with the effort of keeping quiet. Javik wanted to take the translator off and put his head in his hands. He was surrounded by primitives and _that_ one seemed overly excitable.

"If he's willing to be interviewed you can interview him," the Shepard-female declared, "but when he says he's had enough, abide by it." The Shepard-female got to her feet. "I'd like to billet you in here."

Javik nodded.

"We'll talk again, later."

Javik nodded again as the Shepard-female, and her entourage, left the room. He had no time to wonder if she'd post a guard: the eager asari hurried forward and dropped to her knees.


	123. Reaction

Liara wanted to cry from sheer disappointment. The cutting barbs, thrown through Javik's conversation like yard after yard of tanglefoot over some ancient battlefield, she could handle. But apart from being downright unpleasant…he was just plain old _disappointing_ and she didn't think she would _ever_ get over the disappointment.

Draconian autocracy? Slavery—called something nicer but still just as bad—as an institutionalized thing? So much for being like the ancient asari!

She ought to have known, from his first remark of 'amusing: the asari have mastered writing' that things wouldn't go too well. But how they'd gone!

She let out a groan of disappointed frustration, then lunged for her pillow, dragged it to her and buried her face in it. " _Urrg_!"

He had the be the rudest, most unpleasant sapient she'd ever met. Even Udina, at least, tried to mask his disdain for…how did Williams put it that time? 'The mouth-breathers.' Liara wasn't sure she quite understood the slur, but Williams seemed to think that it fitted coming from Udina's character.

"Dr. T'Soni?" EDI asked gentle, after an interminable space of silent stewing. "Shepard would like to know if you had a moment."

"Of course."

No sooner spoken than a tap at the door, which hissed open a moment later. Shepard blinked. "Wow…I heard it went 'not good' but you look _really_ rough."

Liara chuckled weakly. "I'd give my next four centuries for just _one_ Prothean scientist…and hope he didn't want to peel my scalp apart, segment by segment to see how it developed."

Shepard sat down beside her, looking sympathetic…but unsurprised. "Yeah, I got that he wasn't quite what you expected."

Liara sighed, hunching around her pillow. "You don't seem too surprised."

"…I kind of assumed something a little less, uh… _elevated_ from someone who'd been fighting Reapers long enough for a cryogenic preservation project to complete," Shepard answered. "He was out there in the trenches before they put him on ice. He'd a product of his time."

"Doesn't stop him from being an asshole," Liara growled, fingers digging into the pillow. "Do you know what he said to me? 'The lizard-people' evolved?"

It was clear Shepard had to stop and think about which species was most like a lizard.

"He meant the salarians and yes, I told him they were _amphibious_ ," Liara sighed, then growled. "Ugh. 'They used to eat flies.' _All_ species used to eat unpleasant things!"

Shepard chuckled, patting her gently on the back. "I know he's about as polite as a brick through a window…but be a little patient with him? He just found out everything he's ever known is gone, no one he expected to see is here. He's alone in all this. And I'll bet you a month's paycheck that with him, fear looks like anger to an observer. It'd almost have to."

Liara glanced at Shepard. However jokingly Shepard said it, she didn't think she'd like to take that bet. She also made a mental note to see if she could figure out if it was true; it probably was. One didn't show fear to Reapers, and how better to hide it than under something equally powerful? Javik's drift was strangely muted, something easy to lose amongst the drifts of others, as if camouflaged. It made sense, as he described the Protheans as developing from a hunting species. It also made him difficult to read.

Finally, Liara sighed, massaging the back of her neck. "Are you…alright? He didn't muck about with your mind too much?" She ought to have asked beforehand, she thought dryly. Usually, she was so much more concerned when Shepard had Prothean stuff messing with her head.

"No, I feel surprisingly fine," Shepard answered, sounding perplexed at the lack of repercussions.

"What are you going to do with him?"

"I dunno. He might want to stay on the frontline with us. Or maybe he won't. I'll give him a choice, of course."

Liara laughed suddenly, then realized Shepard wouldn't get the joke. She hadn't stuck around for the interview, once she felt Javik was settled. "Don't put it like that: he might think you're threatening him. Apparently species that achieved spaceflight in his time were given a choice: subservient status or death."

Shepard opened her mouth, then blinked. Then blinked again and pressed against her left temple.

"Shepard?"

"I know that…" she said perplexedly, shaking her head. "I know I wasn't there for that conversation but you said it and…I already knew. Like how I know chunks of my own history. It's just kind of…there, and I don't use it until I need it." She frowned, looking at her hand, plainly revisiting Javik's explanation of communication in his Cycle. "Trippy."

Which meant, Liara thought with a sinking feeling, maybe it was less a case of 'no side effects from the Prothean interface' and more like 'side effects delayed because interface was with an actual Prothean.' She made a mental note to check up on Shepard in a few hours. And alert EDI to keep an eye on her…but the AI might already have come to that conclusion.

"Do you think you'll be alright?" Liara asked.

Shepard shrugged once. "As long as I don't remember anything awkward about his last significant other, I think I'll be fine."

Liara let out a bark of laughter, stifling it as Shepard grinned wickedly. "Well, just in case it comes up. That's not a topic I'm interested in."

"Nah, that's something I'd have shared with Chambers if she was still here." Suddenly, Shepard dissolved into an amused chuckle. "Hey, if he gets to wearing you down too much, I'll see about setting him up for a couple sessions with her. I think she could handle him."

Liara did not remind Shepard that she didn't know Chambers very well—though she did know that Shepard had stumbled over her the last time they were on the Citadel. Clearly, though, Shepard felt this was an honest to goodness solution to both culture shock and unpleasant attitudes.


	124. Under the Rain

The air smelled like… _home_. And richly of green growing things. The tinge of rain hung in the air like a whispered promise, making it thick and heavy. The sky overhead was an awesome clean blue near the horizon, with enormous clouds billowing up above dark bellies. The air was warm, but the breeze had a cool bite. Grass blew in shin-deep waves, and somewhere beyond his line of sight trees tossed their leaves together like an enthusiastic crowd of the call of the sea he had never seen.

"Ruffie? Ruffie! Where are you?" he demanded, a laugh in his voice that wasn't his own. "Ruuuuffffiiieeee! Come out here!"

A sound made him turn, his too-flexible face breaking into a wider smile. He watched a large golden thing come at a run, sharp teeth bared, tongue lolling as it loped up to him. It reared up on its hind feet, barking at him, but he felt no sense of fear or danger. Laughing, he put his hands on its shoulders as it knocked him to the ground, coarse tongue licking a cheek that was too soft. Something in his heart snapped uncomfortably, like metal deforming under a crushing grip.

The earth was cold and solid beneath him, the creature's licking far too enthusiastic as a bushy, swishy tail whipped back and forth. The creature was dirty, as though it had rolled around on the ground and in undergrowth, but it was beautiful to him. Familiar to him. He…what did he feel for it? It was big and strange and complex. It made his heart beat unevenly, as if caught in an iron grip.

But for all the world he wouldn't have had it taken away from him.

The licking was irritating, though. Enough was enough.

"Ruffie, you bad boy! Running away like that! Kian! Kian I found him!" He rolled onto his stomach, having finished his castigation only to shudder as Ruffie began licking the back of his neck, putting a forepaw on his shoulder to keep him from getting away. He squirmed as he laughed, there on the cool, grassy ground that smelled like life and cleanliness. How did one correct such a creature for doing what such creatures did? But he wasn't going to let it just run off again, not now that it had been found.

He needed backup.

"Kian!" his little voice piped above the gathering winds.

A human came hurrying up, shaggy brown hair blowing in the breeze, eyes bright blue with a curiously green ring around each center. A warm rush coiled in his chest as the golden thing—Ruffie—was pulled off of him. "Ruffie. Bad dog. _Bad. Dog_."

Ruffie whined and pressed itself against his knees, warm tongue filling his palm as the creature licked it. It could not have been clearer that while he sought backup, the Ruffie-creature saw something quite different.

"Come on, Lissy. That storm's getting close," Kian noted, squinting his bright eyes skyward, freckled face twisting into a scowl. Kian's hand closed on his arm for a moment, before the older boy started off.

There was a dwelling in the distance, marked by trees and shrubs. Small buildings, built boldly upon the ground, highly visible and with bright lights in the windows.

 _Home._

He laughed, caught Ruffie by its collar and pulled to make the creature follow.

Ruffie coughed, dug its paws in, whining and growling its displeasure. But it did not brandish its white teeth as it might have done. In fact, it seemed to be laughing at the efforts of its small masters, happy to make them work for their little victory.

"Ruffie! It's going to _rain_!" Kian protested, grabbing the collar as well and helping haul the beast forward. "Come _on_ …" he growled.

Ruffie coughed again, then jumped forward, dumping Kian onto his backside and dragging him forward several steps.

"Ruffie! _Behave_!" he chided, sure Ruffie was laughing at him, behind those big dark eyes.

It wasn't _going to rain_ , it was raining already. A fat, cold drop spattered his cheek, wipe away smoothly onto his hand. It was clean, no ash, no product of a broken world, this. Dots of water adorned Kian's shirt as the boy seized his hands. "Mom's gonna go nuclear if you get soaked."

He laughed again, looked skywards and let go of Ruffie's collar, holding up a small hand—with delicate skin and blue veins at the wrist—as if he could catch the wind itself in his five stubby fingers. "But I _like_ the rain!"

-J-

Javik woke panting, disoriented in the darkness, feeling sick. He could feel the coarse cloth collar of the Ruffie-creature cutting into his palm as he'd tugged on it, could feel the long, golden fur soft and slightly oily against his hand. He could feel the cool clean wind and the pure rainwater falling from the heavens. There had been strong kinship between himself—not, not _him_ self—and the Kian human. There had been a strong bond between the Observer and the human called 'Mom.'

Javik settled back on his cot, forcing himself to relax. He did not, himself, remember a time when rain had been a gift, when it had been anything but an inconvenience. There had been no Ruffie-dog, nothing of its like. Such things had been lost or eaten long ago. There had been something like the Kian-human, but they too were gone, destroyed out of necessity by his own hand.

He didn't dare close his eyes. The strange dreams, which could only belong to the Shepard-female, troubled him as much as the nightmares to which he was well accustomed. They were windows into a world the Reapers had stolen from him long centuries before he was born.

And he knew, from subtle nuance—the clarity of the Kian human and the Ruffie-dog when their surroundings had faded to green-grey and blue-grey—that there was no Kian-brother and no Ruffie-dog for Shepard, either.

They had been taken long before the Reapers came.


	125. Ashes

The Lost came charging around a corner. "Fall back! Fall back!" her voice—but it wasn't hers—shouted. Her hearts beat uncomfortably.

 _Betrayal_. It was a bad taste lingering on a tongue that wasn't as flexible as it should have been.

A scream at her left made her look away for a second to see Djemma hit the ground heavily, twitching and writhing as blood seeped out of him.

Green light flared, tingling along her skin as she sent a luminous biotic pulse into the Lost. She grabbed Djemma by the wrist, awkwardly sending rounds downrange as more of the Lost charged around the corner.

"Victory! Seal the bulk heads! Seal them now!" she snarled in a voice that was not her own.

Heavy blast doors suddenly slapped shut in front of her. She knelt beside Djemma, but his eyes had gone blank. She slammed a hand down on his breastplate. If she _ever_ found out who did this—the usual treatment of traitors would be a fond memory. Luminescent legs appeared in front of her eyes, the VI designated Victory standing at attention, hands folded behind its back.

"Are you hurt?" she demanded of one of the survivors, Lhorro, who shook his head, waving that he was fine. His eyes passed over but did not rest on Djemma. There were too many like Djemma today and yesterday and all the days before. It was amazing sometimes that anyone bothered to remember a comrade's name.

A muscle in her thigh pulled, trying to cause the muscles in her calf to tighten. Another muscle across her back spasmed like a plucked string. Fires burned on the far end of the bunker, lifepods scattered across the floor like empty nutrient tubes.

"How many have we lost?" she demanded, bracing for a bad news.

The Lost had found this place. How? She knew the answer, of course, but…why _now_ , when they were so _close_?

Echoes of her first learning reverberated in her head: _the Cosmic Imperative does not favor the weak._ She had long ago stopped wondering what that meant with regards to the Reapers. Clearly, they were an anomaly.

"Reaper forces have destroyed approximately three hundred thousand lifepods."

She knelt, opening the nearest pod. Now it was only a fancy coffin.

She looked away, narrowing her eyes. She knew better, but part of her wished to simply stay and fight the Lost until it was over.

But she was not weak, and the thought did not linger long. She had been selected, she had no choice but to go forward with this…ridiculous plan. "A third of our people," she breathed, looking back to the dead sister-in-arms.

They would simply have to make do. And the others, those still alive, looked to her for leadership. She got to her feet just as Victory spoke again, "Alert: north side bulkhead cannot be sealed. Hostiles detected."

"All forces to the north!" she barked and took off at a jog.

A third of their people gone—how many more would this attack by the Lost claim? Still, two thirds was better than nothing; they could still make this stupid plan work. And if it worked…let the Reapers tremble. She had to believe it would, for the sake of those who would wake up in a strange time with her.

-J-

"Hmph. I never thought our empire would fall," the subaltern said wearily as she joined him.

"It hasn't fallen yet," she snapped back, then amended her tone. "We will sleep here until the Reapers return to dark space. Then, we shall rise a million strong. Then let the Reapers tremble."

The subaltern looked heartened and nodded. "For the Empire."

"For the Empire. Now, get to your stasis pod." She tagged him on his arm and he took off at a jog. How easy to say the words. Maybe a few thousand years asleep would help her believe them. "Victory. Broadcast the stasis readiness signal to all lifepods."

Victory materialized beside her as she walked, slowly and wearily, the muscles pulling worse than ever. Unseen as she was, she gave into the limp that tormented her. "And the refugees who have yet to reach the bunker?"

There was no other answer to return, but it didn't mean she liked giving it. It was an unfortunate necessity. "Their sacrifice will be honored in the coming emp—" Suddenly, the bunker lurched. Off-balance because of the limp she stumbled, took a knee, then forced herself back up, readying her rifle. Adrenaline screamed in her veins, her throat tightening as she braced herself for whatever new bad news the Reapers had for her.

"We must activate the neutron bombardment," Victory announced.

"Give it a few minutes!" she snapped, voice tight as she unloaded several rounds into the newest wave of the Lost.

"No. The bunker is falling. There is no other option."

"No! There are soldiers are still alive!"

"Their sacrifice will be honored in the coming empire." How ironic that the word that comforted the subaltern did not comfort her, now.

"Get to your lifepod. Now."

For a moment she hesitated, looking into the so-familiar golden eyes, the eyes of her first mentor. But there was nothing of him there, now, just the appearance.

She took off at a sprint, recognizing and hating the necessity. The bulkhead closed behind her, strangely final.

The pod was open in seconds; she was in it in a handful more. The pod closed like a coffin, bringing up a wash of sickness. She hated small confines and the darkness made it so much the worse. Her whole body trembled as the pod rocked and shook as Victory activated the neutron bombardment.

" _The bunker is secure, Commander Javik_ ," Victory announced.

What was left of it. A few hundred people. Optimistically. How was she supposed to rebuild an empire from such ashes?

" _Alert: neutron purge has compromised the facility."_

Her stomach clenched painfully. "Clarify." Suddenly, she wasn't shaking because of the dark and the small space.


	126. The Precipice

"Hey, there, soldier," Shepard announced herself blandly as the recording cut off.

Cortez flinched, his hand going to his face. After a moment he turned around, expression tight but not succeeding in hiding the grief. He came quickly to the conclusion he wasn't fooling her.

"Captain, sorry." Then, glancing at the datapad, "Recording from Ferris Fields."

"Ferris Fields…" Shepard repeated the colony name, a lump lodging in her throat.

"Yeah. Little colony in the middle of nowhere. Lost a lot of friends that day…" he nodded to the datpad, "Lost my husband."

"I remember Ferris Fields." She remembered the names of all the colonies that 'went dark' and were purged by the Collectors. "You…were talking with him when they hit?" Veetor's spliced footage from Freedom's Progress played in the back of her mind. EDI's footage of the attack on the Normandy followed.

"I was organizing construction at a remote station a few clicks south of the main colony. Robert managed to get outside the field the Collectors put up but instead of running…he called me."

Shepard was silent for a moment, then offered, "It sounded like he cared a lot about you." What did she know about family, really? She had her crew, a patchwork of people she was responsible for.

"He was afraid I wouldn't let go. But for him I moved on. Or…I thought I had."

Right now, her sense of responsibility hissed that Cortez was in a place similar to one she'd been in—and from the look of it, if he didn't scramble out he never would. It would end badly.

Cortez suddenly exhaled sharply and voiced one of those many insidious questions, "What's the point of moving on when everything's going to hell?"

"Start thinking like that and we've already lost. All we do, now, is to stand firm and say 'not one more.' And we make it happen." She firmly believed it; it showed in her voice.

Cortez nodded, licking his lips. "Yeah, you're right. It's just…" his eyes scanned her face as if looking for a sign that she was willing to let him unload. "To be honest, I've never felt as alone as I do now."

"I know _exactly_ how that feels," Shepard answered somberly. "You're not alone: you have me and I have an open door policy. You want to talk, we'll talk. You want to watch the empty fish tanks, we'll watch the empty fish tanks."

He didn't ask about the empty fish tanks, but the corner of his mouth tried to lift.

"Is it true?" Cortez asked, almost hesitantly.

"Is what true?" Shepard responded, though she had a good idea what his question would be.

"That the Collectors were…doing something…to our people?"

She knew he meant 'our people' in the vein of 'a collective of loved ones.' "Yes."

"What were they doing?"

Shepard hesitated. She'd found it difficult enough to recount the facts to the Alliance. It seemed worse to have to recount it to someone who'd lost a loved one to the Collectors.

After all, she'd wondered how the rest of her family had died in the first few years after Mindoir, but she'd never enquired into the matter. It was better—then and now—not to know for sure. That way, she could imagine quick, painless deaths.

But it wasn't that way for everyone, and every time she met someone for whom that was not the case she wondered if there was something broken in her. Something that had been broken long before she knew it was there. Or maybe hers was a child's response.

It didn't matter. This wasn't about her.

Cortez's steady blue gaze met hers, filled with the kind of pain hearing the truth, however bad it might be, could only assuage. It was better to hear the full, ugly truth than to have one's imagination spinning ever-worsening scenarios.

"They were breaking down the bodies into a paste and feeding it into a Reaper superstructure. They were turning us into one of them." The sterility of the answer pleased her: nothing in those two sentences truly conveyed the horror of what had gone on in that hellhole. It was a greyscale render of something truly horrific.

Cortez nodded once. The news didn't seem to stagger him; maybe it sounded better to someone who hadn't seen it all firsthand. Gory details got lost in _ex_ _post facto_ accounts. It was the difference between hearing others talk about Corporal Jenkins' death and having been there to see it. "And then you blew them all to hell?"

" _Nothing_ on that base survived." The grim satisfaction that touched the edges of her perceptions did not drive away the fear that there might still be isolated pockets of Collectors. If there _were_ pockets of survivors, they were only pockets. And in a galaxy at war they wouldn't be allowed to last too long.

"Then he can rest in peace. Thank you, Captain." Cortez turned around and Shepard closed her eyes, recognizing a wish for momentary privacy.

"If you need me, Cortez."

The concrete reminder of all those she couldn't save bothered her. It took effort not to fall into the spiral of 'should have, could have, would have.' She knew, logically, that there was nothing she could have done, but the knowledge didn't make the reality easier to live with. Too many colonies had been lost while the galaxy sat on its ass and waited for Captain Frikking Shepard to find out what the hell was happening.

"Looks like you could use a little peace yourself," Cortez remarked blandly.

Shepard gave him a wry smile. "I appreciate the thought." She couldn't afford it, not when she needed to be a fire-breathing, titanium-clad juggernaut. Her hand absently brushed her cheek, the one Dr. Chakwas had had to surgically repair because she, Shepard, had been unable to maintain the proper mindset to facilitate healing in the 'mind over matter' fashion.

No, she didn't do 'peace' and 'restful' very well at all.


	127. Love

Thane shook himself gently, Shepard's vivid face disappearing from his mind's eye, replaced by Kaidan's expression, a mix of several things.

"You loved her, didn't you?" Kaidan asked quietly.

Thane considered this, then sighed heavily. "I am dying," he declared, "it would have been unforgivable to offer her any support beyond that of a friend. Even if I were whole, I somehow doubt she would have let me close enough to decide whether or not I did."

It was true enough.

"Shepard came to me when I was in a very dark place.

" _Not much space in the vents, darkness all around. A foot slips, knocks against the side of the shaft. Somewhere behind, an access panel is pushed open, a voice calls out, '_ You'll just get tired! _' She's determined, but exhilarated, enjoys the hunt._

" _I smile, continue moving forward. Despite being more visible to Nassana's mercenaries, despite the odds against her, she keeps powering through them. She's pushing me, could beat me to the target. Despite the fact that this is supposed to be my last assignment…a feeling like revitalization begins to creep up on me._ "

"Shepard was hunting you?" Kaidan asked.

"She was recruiting, and her brilliant plan to find me was to catch up with me at my mission objective. She impressed me. You should have seen the carnage."

"Oh, I think I can imagine what that'd have been like," Kaidan chuckled, shaking his head. "She's all for peaceful resolution, but get in her way and she'll run you over."

"Quite so. And she did more: she gave me back my son, when he fell into deep shadows.

" _She's playing bad cop—I have to trust it. But she looks so cold, not the woman I know._

" _Kolyat is desperate, if she pushes too hard…_

"'No? _' she asks, her expression cold. There's ice behind her eyes._

" _Mother Arashu…she's going to kill my son._

" _She darts forward, a controlled spring no one saw coming. She drags a hand back and smashes her pistol grip into Kolyat's face. She wrenches the pistol mercilessly from his hand and retreats to stand with the rest of us. The ice is gone as she disassembles Kolyat's weapon, pieces dropping to the ground like rain. She hands me the targeting sight. '_ Keep this. It's expensive _.'_ "

Thane shuddered inwardly, the moment in which he felt so certain Shepard would kill his son in front of him inevitably made him shiver.

"She's like that. A fixer," Kaidan agreed. "She helped a few of us with our demons….last time. Can't seem to walk away from the pains and problems of her crewmen."

"And so it was for all of us," Thane shrugged. "But she never lets them draw close to her, or share her burdens. She never asks for aid for herself. She might invoke the owing of a favor, she might ask as a personal appeal, but such things are always for the mission, for the cause, for the greater good. Never for herself." Thane shook his head. "She holds body and soul together admirably, but she takes poor care of herself."

"Shepard has this thing about people around her get hurt, or killed. She tries to minimize the damage as best she can by trying to keep them at a distance," Kaidan supplied. "Stupid, really."

"But understandable," Thane responded in gentle censure. It explained a few things, and reinforced his perception of the one-sided barrier Shepard tried to keep between herself and other people.

He'd had repeated reasons to believe that, like Garrus, Kaidan had somehow bypassed the barrier…and that Shepard, for whatever reason, had put it back up. He wasn't privy to details and was not about to pry. But it was plain when she came up in conversation that here was a man who loved her, barriers be damned.

"I rarely said so out loud, but from the day she gave my son back to me, she became 'siha.'"

Kaidan cocked his head, waiting for Thane to continue.

"It is what my people call the warrior-angels of the goddess Arashu," Thane clarified. "All fire and strength, unflinching guardians. The lights in dark places, the hands that reach out to rescue you."

Kaidan closed his eyes. "She wouldn't like that," he said quietly, as if he thought his words too quiet to be overheard. Thane let them go, agreeing with Kaidan on that point. Shepard knew she was only human, and having such metaphors applied to her would make her nervous, mostly from concern of somehow falling short of expectation. The simple fact that it _was_ but a metaphor would not compute for her. She would simply see expectation. It was what she was trained to see.

"Who's Arashu?" Kaidan asked, more to have something to say than anything else.

"She is the goddess of motherhood and protection," Thane answered simply.

Thane thought back to Alenko's original question: _You loved her, didn't you_? There was no jealousy in the question, but a sort of quiet acceptance that such might be the case, and understandable.

It was true that he'd only been as fond of her as she would permit. There were too many unknowns for him to say 'yes' or 'no' definitively.

 _I watch the door as she leaves, the metal portal sealing behind her. She is a decidedly beautiful woman, regardless of species. Her soul irradiates her flesh, makes that outward trapping of little importance. One sees the strength, the ferocity, the compassion, the way vulnerability—which all beings have—retreats, mostly hidden behind those things that can obscure it._

 _My hands rest knotted together, bright green against the grey table. She is not like my Irikah, but they share a similar spark. A shining shard of light encased within their flesh before they were ushered into the world, a spark that could inspire or strengthen others._

He was dying. Had he not been, he could have loved her.

In that case, and had she permitted such a thing, he would have.


	128. Face Facts

"I'm glad you came to see me," Kaidan announced, and he looked it. In fact, if Leslie knew anything about him, he was probably trying hard not to chew on the furniture. He could sit still for the duration of a film, or a meal, but after that he needed to get up and move around. She'd asked about that once; he'd shrugged, called it 'force of habit' and proceeded to vent restless energy without embarrassment.

"So am I." Which was true, though not as true as she would have liked. She would much rather have preferred it to be a hand-holding sort of visit, but that hope had died months ago. She hadn't been sure she wanted to come see him. She'd recognized the resentful selfishness: it wasn't right, she thought, to turn her back on him simply because she couldn't have him.

It was childish, so she'd made herself come.

"Be careful out there," Kaidan encouraged.

Leslie smiled automatically. "I'm not the one who ended up stuck in here." Then, when Kaidan grinned ruefully, "I will be."

She left the suite and the ward, wondering what might have happened if they hadn't broke on the rock of…

"Captain Shepard?" It was an awful feeling, as if thinking about the woman suddenly conjured her up.

"Yes?" Shepard's posture straightened, as if braced for something. For anything, really. "What can I do for you?"

So this was what hung around in the periphery of Kaidan's mind. It wasn't what Leslie expected. Shepard, tough and with hard planes beginning to expose themselves in her face, seemed like any other soldier visiting a friend in the hospital. She'd grown to expect someone larger than life, some sort of gung-ho caricature of a soldier. "Nothing, I just…was just visiting Kaidan and recognized you."

"Ah." Shepard's smile was rueful, as if she was not accustomed to hearing Kaidan's given name and had had to stop and think 'Kaidan…Kaidan…oh, Alenko.' Well, she probably wasn't used to thinking of him that way. From everything Leslie understood, very few people used first names in the military anyway. Then, Shepard's expression changed to surprise clouded over with concern. "You-you're the doctor, aren't you?"

It was Leslie's turn to be surprised. "I'm _a_ doctor," she responded uncertainly.

Shepard cocked her head. "Interesting. Mind if I ask what kind of doctor?"

"I specialize in the xenobiologic considerations of environmental conservation." It was the last question Leslie expected, and Shepard's 'heh' of approval was even more disconcerting.

"Geek-nerd tendencies at their finest," Shepard murmured, caught between approval and amusement. Then, apparently catching Leslie's surprise, "He mentioned you…the one time he posted me a letter. He never said what you were a doctor of. Figures he'd find something with complicated nuances. He's a geek-nerd at heart." And it was plain that she meant it as the kindest compliment in her repertoire of nice things to say.

And Leslie didn't doubt that the remark would have brought a smile to Alenko's face if he'd heard it.

"Oh. I see." She couldn't very well say that, more and more as time had gone on, she'd begun to feel that Shepard was _haunting_ him. It had been hard, so hard, being in competition with a not-so-dead dead woman. She didn't know if there was anything more than camaraderie between them—she doubted it—but even that bond proved too much for her to compete against.

"I'm making you uncomfortable. Is he up?" Shepard asked.

"I think he'd be glad to see you." As much as Leslie resented being displaced by a _memory_ , she couldn't help but think that Shepard might fit into Kaidan's world a little better.

For instance, _she_ had no desire to go kayaking—which he'd expressed as a personal interest several times—and motorcycles scared her.

Shepard looked like the kind of girl who would go whitewater canoeing if given the opportunity, and who possessed a lead foot when it came to driving _any_ vehicle.

And while Kaidan had been good for intelligent conversation—albeit not in her realm of study—he got touchy about certain questions (about biotics and their application, for instance) or would reference something off-handed before realizing that she was _not_ a space jockey.

And she understood squat—her words—about the military.

There. There was the real surge of resentment she'd been waiting for. She'd been very fond of Kaidan…but she hadn't really belonged in his world. He'd known it, in retrospect, but had either been unable to break it to her…or unwilling to try, because he enjoyed her company. She simply hadn't been formed to fit the niche in his life she'd wanted to occupy.

"I'm sorry you lost him," Shepard offered quietly.

The words sounded genuine, but caught Leslie so off-guard that her tone came out sharp. "I-what? I haven't _lost_ —" Leslie stopped herself, realizing that her reflexive protest was not…accurate. It was accurate in that she'd never _had_ him, so she couldn't very well lose him…but part of the problem was and had always been Shepard herself. The memory, or the woman. "How could you tell?"

"Because if you hadn't you wouldn't look like you wanted to murder me and hide my mauled body in the woods." She had to work not to smile.

Leslie had to work not to smile, too. "He thinks very highly of you."

"He seemed very fond of you."

Leslie shrugged. "Not fond enough," she sighed heavily. "You should go see him. He'll be glad of the visitor."

"He's probably chewing the furniture. Alenko hates being benched."

Leslie's resentment flared again: there was an intimate knowledge of habit and character in the words. Fortunately, Shepard took the hint, said something polite, then strode off to join her wounded comrade. Leslie chewed the inside of her lip as she left the hospital. She'd known, after that day in Zakera Ward, that whatever relationship she had with Alenko would never go anywhere. Still, she hadn't quite given up hope…until now.


	129. Come Home

Gabriela Daniels had arrived at the point where she felt so sick to her stomach that all she could do was sprawl on her bunk and try not to listen to Kenneth's swings between apathy and energy. They'd been stuck at this stupid Citadel holding facility for weeks, 'pending further action after a bizarre mix-up in paperwork and personnel' being the Alliance's official stance—and _that_ happening after six months?

She smelled something weird and wasn't sure she liked it.

She sighed and rolled onto her side, hiding her face under one arm. Even in lockdown, it was impossible not to know: Earth was burning. Arcturus was gone. Shepard and the _Normandy_ were alright, though, out there somewhere fighting the good fight. She had to stifle a sense of regret—Cerberus sleepers were a real concern since Shepard severed ties. Even if Shepard knew where she and Donnelly were, she'd probably leave them alone.

Gabby understood, even if she didn't like it. It hurt a bit, given their pre-Cerberus position with regards to Shepard.

Almost as bad was news that Palaven was burning. The strongest fleet in the galaxy and the Reapers was using it for target practice. She closed her eyes, imagining a world full of Garrus Vakarians being razed. The thought staggered her. The thought staggered the turians at this C-Sec facility. A lot of them didn't seem happy chasing shoplifters on the Citadel when there were Reapers needing a good boot up the ass.

She wondered what the quarians were up to, what Tali was up to. Of all the Cerberus personnel, Gabby was proud to think that she had had the most success bonding with the anti-Cerberus quarian. It was a friendship based on the fact that she felt Alliance first—at least with regards to principles—and they spoke the same language: starships. Once the quarian got the chip off her shoulder, she'd been good company and exceptionally gifted.

What was that crazy krogan up to?

Or that geth-thing that made her and Tali so edgy but which Shepard had attached a particular value?

It was hard to imagine that any of the old crew might be dead. She'd never seen so many non-humans—so many exceptional people, human or not—in one place before serving on the SR-2.

She shifted nervously on her bunk. Dying thoughts after 'SR-2' usually led to her stint with the Collectors. That wasn't pleasant and she tried very hard not to let thoughts about it get their hooks in her.

Shepard had blown their house up and that was that.

The door at the end of the hall clanged. A moment later, several pairs of booted feet with a purposeful stride marched up the corridor.

This was not an unusual occurrence, though it was a bit early for dinner. The silence of the owners of the feet, though, was a little odd. Usually there was some kind of discussion—always halted upon arriving at their destination.

"Well hell," a very, wonderfully, fantastically familiar voice noted. "If I'd known you'd gotten so comfy I would've left you to it. Don't you know there's a war on?"

"Commander!" Kenneth was first out of his bunk, Gabby hot on his heels.

There she was, Commander—no, _Captain_ —Shepard, smirking at them as she leaned on the grille between them. Dressed in an Alliance officers' blues, Captain's bars gleaming on her shoulder, was Shepard, not suspicious of them, not dubious of their allegiances, and definitely there to bust them out of here.

"It's _Captain_ , Kenneth!" Gabby hissed.

"I'll take these misguided children off your hands, officer," Shepard winked at Kenneth and Gabby as she said it, but palmed the door open for them herself. "You're being reinstated with clean records as of now. Engineering's a little empty."

Shepard accepted a datapad from the C-Sec officer and began to scribble with the stylus. She signed it, then returned it to the officer who gave it a perfunctory once-over.

"Glad to let you have them. That one," he indicated Donnelly, "talks too damn much."

"Did I get to telling you the one about the bartarian, the asari and the hanar?" Donnelly began enthusiastically without missing a beat.

"Pass, Donnelly," Shepard chuckled, waving a hand.

"Way to spoil the punchline, Captain," Donnelly answered with a gleam of mischief in his eyes.

"I don't want to know," Shepard shook her head as the turian officer nodded approval at her sentiment.

Gabby had never seen a 'get out of jail free card' and she still hadn't seen it—but she certainly saw the effects of having one. The clamor from the rest of the block was instantaneous, but Shepard ignored it.

"Come on." Shepard ushered them out before her, like a mother goose collecting wayward chicks, Gabby thought.

-J-

The Normandy looked as beautiful as ever—more so now that she sported the Alliance's colors.

"Would you look at that," Donnelly sighed, grinning at the window. "She's a sight for sore eyes."

Shepard suddenly and inexplicably chocked, lifting a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound. "Yes. I suppose she is," Shepard agreed.

"Hey, we've been missing her for ages. Don't spoil it," Gabby entreated.

Shepard chuckled again, leaving Gabby absolutely certain that there was something Shepard knew that they didn't and was fully expecting to spring on them as a surprise. She hoped it was the nice kind of surprise—she could do with a few more of those in life. The way Shepard put her face in one hand for the rest of the ride suggested it might be.

"What's so funny?" Donnelly asked suspiciously.

"Nothing, really," but that, too, seemed to amuse Shepard. "Don't worry about it, Donnelly. When you get aboard, stash your gear and report to Chief Engineer Adams in Engineering. He's expecting you—and I gave you both glowing reviews."

"Aw, you shouldn't have," Gabby responded with a grin.

"But I did." The skycar landed and the canopy opened with a hiss.


	130. Bombshell

Kenneth Donnelly's head was still reeling from the abrupt and unexpected rescue from the C-Sec detention cell. He'd known—or so he would tell anyone who asked—that something had been up. All that messed up paperwork? Transfer of Alliance personnel to the Citadel? The apparent slipping-though of Gabby and himself through the bureaucratic chinks? Too much happy coincidence there to be anything but someone else's plan.

He'd worried, from time to time, that he and Gabby might find themselves on the wrong end of a Cerberus nutjob, but held out the quiet hope that once again Shepard would come for them. She didn't fit his usual mental image of 'an angel' when it came to women. Then again, there were supposed to be flaming-sword varieties and that sounded more like Shepard…with her ray-gun.

He scrambled out of the skycar, the better to take in the sleek lines of the Normandy, now proudly sporting Alliance blue. Yellow had never been his favorite color, and he'd wondered sometimes, but never asked, if EDI shared his opinion: yellow was for cartoon characters, not ships.

The cargo bay was open, revealing a pair of shuttles and crate after crate of materiel. Something about the packed-in quality of the space, and the two men chatting volubly with a quickfire of friendly bullshit seemed to give the space an aura it hadn't had the last time he'd been here. Somehow, with the new lighting, the place seemed prime—

Blue light assailed Kenneth's eyes, a mechanical bark penetrating the spots dancing across his vision.

"Oh, wow!" Gabby almost squealed.

"Heya, Sophie," Shepard added, taking a knee and rubbing the head of a Fenris mech that stopped trying to scan everyone with that eye-blasting blue flickering field in favor of letting the two women rub its head.

"We've got a mascot now?" Donnelly asked, rubbing his watering eyes.

"Aw, do you feel displaced, Ken?" Gabby asked wickedly.

"A little," he answered with arch dignity as the mechanical mutt slithered free of the two women to walk around his ankles several times before giving another bark and trotting off to walk what looked like a patrol circuit around the cargo bay.

"Didn't know you were a dog person," Gabby observed to Shepard.

Shepard shrugged, then pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's been awhile. EDI, where's Adams?"

"Engineer Adams has settled in the mess for dinner. Shall I apprise him you have recovered Engineers Daniels and Donnelly?" the AI asked promptly.

"No, that's okay."

"Hey, EDI," Gabby called, glancing around reflexively for EDI's nearest blue avatar.

"Hello again, Engineer Daniels. I'm glad to see you well," the AI responded politely.

Shepard did something odd. Donnelly didn't think Gabby noticed, but Shepard's mouth twisted and worked as if she was…trying not to smile…she even brought her hand to her mouth momentarily as if to smother the amusement without apparent cause.

Contrary to what some people might think, Kenneth Donnelly was no fool. He didn't know what was ticking the Captain's funny bone, but she was definitely in a mood of anticipation at being humored. And she wasn't a woman known for being lighthearted.

"Do you have time to squeeze getting their security credentials in, or do you want to let it wait?" Shepard asked as she started for the lift that would take them, in all likelihood, to the Chief Engineer.

It would be weird not being the kinda-sorta-chief engineer…but the question Shepard asked EDI was weirder. It wasn't like the AI could just grow legs and wander off.

"I have already done so," EDI answered.

"Thank you."

The lift took them briskly to the mess deck, where they stowed their few belongings. It was weird to look at the crew quarters and realize from certain minutia that the crew was far from complete. He wondered if Shepard ever looked at the empty crew quarters and remembered another time when they were empty.

Donnelly mutinously cut the thought off. Nope. He wasn't going there. he didn't want to talk about it. He certainly didn't want to think about it. And if there was one thing he could do well, it was blithely ignore important, unpleasant things that tried to bother him or make him lose sleep.

The brightly-lit mess hall—devoid of crusty Evil Geniuses—and the smell of real food did go some way to restoring Donnelly's sense of rightness. And the little gal behind the counter, the Evil Genius' replacement, was a cute little thing.

"Adams," Shepard strode up to one of the officers, seated with Dr. Chakwas. For once, the doctor didn't seem to have anything to supervise or keep an eye on. She looked out of place in the mess hall. "I've brought you an engineering crew. Gabriella Daniels and Kenneth Donnelly. They're all yours next shift."

In spite of his friendly smile, Adams had an assessing glance that told Donnelly that this was the guy who had run of the roost now. "You're an angel, Captain."

Shepard shrugged as if to say there was some question.

"With a ray-gun," Donnelly deadpanned.

Gabby gave a squeak and sneezed.

"That's _really_ gross, Gabby." Donnelly knew where her mind would go; better for her to snot all over the place and laugh, or call him an idiot, than go there.

"One moment, Engineer Daniels."

The voice belonged to EDI, but was far too close.

Both Donnelly and Gabby whipped around to see…

Donnelly rubbed his eyes, but the curvy mech didn't do away, merely continued rubbing in its large shoulder bag until it found a tissue packet and offered one to Gabby. The band on one arm identified her as a medical assistance mech.

"Thanks…EDI?" Gabby rasped, taking the tissue and blowing her nose with a sound disproportionate to her size.

"That is correct," the AI answered, sounding pleased with herself. She offered Gabby another tissue.

Donnelly glanced over his shoulder at Shepard.

She was trying not to laugh.

So _this_ was the joke. Hilarious. And weird.


	131. Outsourced

Jondum Bau watched as Jalissa Shepard prowled into Purgatory, the club that existed in practice without actually existing on paper. That was saying something, here on the Citadel, where bureaucracy and recordkeeping—mostly in the form of taxes and other assorted revenue-collections—were raised to such a height of perfection.

This 'slipped through the cracks' position made the club a popular haunt for Spectres. He doubted Aria T'Loak, the proprietress, was unaware of this, but she'd made no effort to prevent those sketchy patrons from drifting in and out of her establishment. Maybe she figured the Spectres provided an extra layer of security.

' _Look, Slick,_ _when a guy goes out for a quiet drink, he tends to take it badly when someone loud and obnoxious wants to start a fight or otherwise disrupt said moment of quietude. We work hard for a living. Thus it reads in the Book of Avitus; so was it written, so let it be done._ '

Bau found himself grinning at the memory of his preceptor's remarks at the end of Bau's first barfight to the downed cloaca who'd started it all. Avitus was retired now and far, far away from all this garbage. If this garbage ever caught up with the old man, Bau hoped he—hoped they all—never had the chance to wake up and face it. If the odds of winning were grim here, the odds for all those spaceward souls were even worse. Better to just die in their sleep, unknowing, unafraid.

He was getting maudlin, he thought sourly. Thank goodness he had work to do.

As Captain Shepard passed, she saw the fluted glass of ice on the edge of the table. The ice caused the glass to frost, the lighting in the room giving it a rather spectral appearance.

"Hello, Captain Shepard," Bau greeted as she slid into the booth beside him. "Jondum Bau." He held out a hand, which she shook.

"Good to meet you. What's up?"

"The possible Indoctrination of high-level hanar officials," Bau answered.

"That's a damning accusation." Her bright eyes flicked over him, silently inquiring for something more concrete than mere accusations.

Bau produced an OSD and slid it to her. Shepard discreetly palmed it, but didn't load it into her omnitool. "An Alliance Black Ops team raided a batarian research station. The batarians were studying Reaper tech."

Shepard's mouth twisted with distaste…and a little perplexity. Whether about batarians researching Reaper tech or his familiarity with something pertaining to Alliance Black Ops, it was hard to tell. Maybe a bit of both; even Spectres liked to believe, or let themselves believe, that their militaries' secret operations never fell into the hands of anyone but Spectres of their own species. It was an 'all in the family' mentality and utterly absurd. It was also endemic among Spectres (to the unending amusement of STG).

"The raid turned into a bloodbath. Your people faked a power failure to hide the incident."

"And this ties in with the hanar…how?"

But he could see her fidgeting with the disk, turning it over and over in her fingers as if handling it would help combat her curiosity. "They maintain grey-market relations with the batarians," Bau shrugged. "And led your people to the facility."

"Ah. So you suspect hanar assisting with the operation might have got their tentacles on some Reaper tech and got away with it? Dare I ask about your source?"

"That's the concern. The information came as an anonymous gift—though I believe I know the donor's identity. Kasumi Goto—I've been after her for years. I also believe you're acquainted with her." Which was why he'd involved Shepard in the first place: she would facilitate further communications.

"We've met," Shepard answered with a nonchalant shrug. "She's a thief, isn't she?"

"A _master_ thief," Bau corrected almost automatically. "Her intelligence and skill are almost salarian."

Shepard chuckled softly. "I'm sure she'd appreciate the compliment."

"I admire her, personally." So many people with well-deserved egg on their faces, Bau grinned. "And since she sent me this, I assume the feeling is mutual."

"So where do I come in?"

Apart from the fact that Bau expected Kasumi to make contact after some fashion, and simply wished to make it easier? But since they were both being coy, there was no point in saying it. Shepard didn't know him, didn't know if she could trust him when it came to a member of her crew. That was fine. She had reason not to assume she could trust people. Especially people she didn't know who messaged her late in the evening and wanted her to come out for a clandestine chat in a little breakaway piece of Omega.

"Because I'm too visible," Bau answered. "I'm also tracking suspicious transmissions to Kahje. If they know to look, they'll know someone's poking around, and they'll know that someone is me. The hanar operative is now a diplomat on the Citadel. I don't have their public name. All they have to do is go to ground if I make a formal inquiry. Then, pssh," he waved vaguely to indicate the lead disappearing.

Shepard nodded slowly. "I'll go over this, see what I can do." Her tone asked if there was anything else. He appreciated her willingness to get on with it.

"I do apologize for the late hour," Bau offered, in the weary fashion of one who knows the value of a good night's rest by dint of having lost so many to his work. That was another thing among Spectres: 'what's a few sleepless nights between colleagues?'

"Don't worry about it." With that, she slid out of the booth and sauntered out of the club, meandering slowly, like anyone who had nothing to do and all night to get it done.

Bau got to his feet, glanced at the icy glass, then picked it up and headed for the bar. He was so tired his skin was starting to dry out. Not a good sign.


	132. To Be

Joker was not a fan of recreational walking. Never had been. It was usually uncomfortable, awkward, and unprofitable. So when Joker did have to make use of the heel-toe express, it was usually over short distances with a clear goal in mind.

Usually. He seemed to be doing more recreational walking over the last couple weeks, anytime the Normandy docked with the Citadel. Not for his own sake, but because of the unshackled AI—which everyone _still_ failed to notice wandering around—currently seated beside him.

Joker glanced around over the lid of his slushy. Nope. No one ever batted an eyelash. Could they not tell that the platform had just a little too much intelligence in her expression? Avina never came across as being intelligent. Surely people around here had to see the difference.

As per usual, EDI perched on the edge of the bench, apparently content to watch people go by while he took a moment to rest. "So, did you enjoy the show?"

EDI looked away from an elderly couple passing at a shuffle. "I think so." She frowned, and he wondered at her attention to detail. Unlike organics, who had to practice _not_ letting their emotions show on their faces, EDI had to remember to display emotional cues for others. And she was really good about it, too. As far as Joker could tell. Then again, EDI was all about clear lines of communication. "I found that some of the humor failed to compute."

It surprised Joker when EDI asked if he wanted to go see a show, more because he hadn't expected it than for any other reason. In retrospect, maybe it wasn't surprising. EDI enjoyed expanding her breadth of experience, though she did so in a controlled, concerted fashion, bricks in an unending wall. "It won't—some of it was just stupid-stupid."

"Stupid-stupid," she repeated dubiously.

"Yeah. In professional humor, you have funny-funny, funny-stupid and stupid-stupid. Some of that stuff was definitely stupid-stupid." And he'd laughed so hard he'd worried about his ribs. Just because it was totally stupid didn't mean it couldn't garner a few laughs, as proved by the masses howling during the show.

EDI filed this away, then shrugged. "At the very least, I have a better understanding of timing in humor," she mused.

"What is it with you and the humor?" Joker asked, cocking his head.

EDI shrugged. "It is one of the fashions in which the galaxy communicates. Failure to use and/or recognize is a major stumbling block." Then, brightening, "And I enjoy it."

"Well, that's kinda the point of humor," Joker answered, without going to back to correct his sentence to 'most humor.' He got slowly to his feet, EDI rising beside him without giving the impression of hovering. She might be wearing a 'medical assistance mech' armband, but she knew how not to crowd, and Joker appreciated it.

It was too bad, he thought as they walked, that EDI couldn't actually eat. It was weird to sit there with her just watching a dining experience—hence the slurpy. And the walking.

The mercantile district in which they found themselves seemed to be peddling nostalgia, if Joker had to attach a label to the morass of products displayed at the shop fronts. It was because he was trying to decide the common theme that he noticed the rabbit. Or maybe he noticed it because the velveteen was green instead of brown.

"I didn't know they still made these." His sister had one, an ancient, battered thing that usually sat on her bed instead of with the rest of the stuffed toys on their various shelves. He found himself grinning at the last time he'd teased her about playing with stuffed toys. ' _Get_ _him, Mr. Bop!_ ' He'd had to duck sharply to avoid the rabbit—whose flight was powered by a throw that would have done most marines credit—taking his head off.

EDI picked up the long body with is loose-in-the-joint limbs and drooping ears, turning it over in her hands. She probably had the entire materials list flashing before her eyes.

Joker suddenly found himself uncomfortably confronted by wondering what Mr. Bop would actually be without Hilary anthropomorphizing it. Just a list of materials and the same soulless black glass eyes looking up at him now.

Wow. Suddenly, it really _mattered_ that there should be a Mr. Bop in the galaxy…

"Jeff?" There was a note in EDI's voice Joker didn't think he liked. It wasn't calculated to help him push aside worry over his family's safety.

"Yeah?" he looked away from the rabbit to find EDI studying it, rather than his expression.

"Do you think of me in terms of being real?" The question came out almost as if she was thinking aloud, though Joker knew better. EDI didn't have the problem of keeping thoughts from becoming vocalized things.

His answer came too quickly. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

The truth was, he'd never really thought about it. EDI was…well…EDI. But he thought he could kind of see what she was getting at. He hadn't realized her bedside reading included kids' books, but why else would she ask that question, prompted by the appearance of a rabbit, classical to literature?

It was a sticky question, and he was reminded of the question Legion averred started the Geth/quarian conflict: _does this unit have a soul?_

Well, he thought as he suddenly turned on his heel and marched up to the cashier. _He_ wasn't going to get heebie-jeebies about deep topics he didn't think himself qualified to stew over. If EDI wanted deep conversation, she could go to Shepard; Shepard fielded that sort of stuff now. But if EDI wanted to be 'real', whatever the hell that actually _meant_ , fine. Whatever.

Mr. Bop the Second could…help?

He pretended it made sense. He had his official story ready when he returned to where EDI stood. "My sister says every girl should have a stuffed something. Guess she'd know, right?"


	133. Level

Shepard knew when she was being followed. Ns tended to develop soft eyes, the ability to recognize the buildup of minutia, which resulted in the appearance of having eyes in the back of their heads. So when she slipped into the cab, she slid across the seat to the far side.

She entered her destination briskly, then settled into the seat, tiredness burning her eyes and nibbling at the muscles in her back like little curious fish.

"Aw, how did you know?" a cheerful voice asked, half playful, half deprecatory, once the door was shut and the cab underway.

"Wild guess," Shepard answered comfortably. "Hey, Kasumi."

A second later a stealth field fizzled, revealing Kasumi Goto, looking in the pink of health, dressed in the hooded catsuit Shepard remembered so clearly from their time together. Bright eyes peered birdlike from the shadows of her hood, the mouth stretched into a cautious smile.

"So," she began without preamble. "Remember how you helped me get Keiji's greybox from Hock? The one with information that could start a war?"

Shepard eyed the thief sidelong. "I remember we destroyed it in accordance to the owner's wishes."

A flash of grief momentarily hardened Kasumi's soft features. "Yes," she agreed. "We did. But I needed a hobby after…" She licked her lips, pursing them, then looked out the window, giving Shepard the back of her hood. A slightly hunched quality to her posture indicated Kasumi still wasn't at peace with the decision. It was over and done, though.

"Kasumi?" Shepard asked hesitantly.

"Yes, Shep?" the words came out blandly, neither inviting nor rejecting.

Shepard considered what she wanted to say very carefully. Kasumi, like her namesake, had slipped away quietly from the Normandy after returning from the Collector base. There hadn't been time for Shepard to pull her aside and talk to her. Waiting hadn't made the topic easier to broach, but the lingering guilt she felt told her it needed to be done. If _she_ felt guilty for Kasumi having caved as she had, she could only imagine how Kasumi felt.

"What happened on the Collector base? It wasn't your fault."

Kasumi laughed. "You've been stewing on that for six, eight…gracious, I don't want to count any further than that. Numbers are only really interesting after five digits. However many months? Of course it wasn't my fault. It was theirs. They just _had_ to start something."

Shepard exhaled wearily, hunching to rest her elbows on her knees. She sensed the falseness, the 'leave it alone, dammit, because it _is_ kind of your fault' in the woman's voice. "It was mine, and you need to understand that none of it was yours."

Kasumi sighed, then turned so she sat tailor fashion, facing Shepard's profile. "I really don't want to talk about this, Shepard."

"I know. But if we don't, you'll spend more time blaming yourself for something you shouldn't," Shepard persisted. She saw the look on Kasumi's face when the thief found herself removed from the frontline, a mix of relief and shame, the _only_ one on the team who caved under pressure…and unpleasant questions, self-doubt, that sort of debilitating thing could creep in the wake of such moments.

"That sounds more like you than me." Then, when Shepard remained silent—gathering her argument more than out of defeat—Kasumi sighed again. "Okay, Shep. I can see this has been bothering you. There was pressure and I caved. I don't see what that has to do with you—no offense."

"Because I'm the CO who put you in a position you weren't meant for and didn't pay attention to the warning signs. I was short-handed, we were in a hurry, and I committed one of the capital sins of leadership: the right person for the right job. Don't use a ball peen hammer when a rubber mallet is what's called for. You shouldn't have been on the frontline. I'm…I was wrong not to recognize it."

"All off your chest?" Kasumi asked, once the silence stretched.

"Yes."

"Good. Then we can stop talking about this." A hand appeared hesitantly on Shepard's shoulder, Kasumi's voice was a little gentler when she spoke. "I _do_ appreciate what you're saying. I just don't want to go back there at all if I don't have to. It was rather horrible."

Yes. Shepard had been glad to find Kelly hiding out; if Eek or Meek, or Dr. Chakwas, needed (need being separate from want) to talk to someone whose specialty was head-stuff, she knew who to call.

"So, to business?" Kasumi asked.

"Please and thank you." It sometimes amazed Shepard how infrequently she 'went there' as Kasumi said it, with regards to the Collector base. Even now, she looked back at the horror show the place was…and found herself giving a heavy sigh to look at the horror parade ravaging the galaxy.

Kasumi swiveled to sit properly on the seat.

Shepard counted it as a mark of familiarity that, while most people would have felt blithely brushed off, she felt she'd got the message through nice and clear. It wouldn't make things better immediately, but the fact was that Kasumi's burden would be a little lighter.

And Kasumi shouldn't, Shepard thought sourly, have to carry any of that burden. Anger and rage successfully clouded her own vision, left her looking at the Collectors through a crimson haze. She'd lost track of small details in her need to confront them and rescue the crew. She'd let her emotions override her ass, and someone else had been walking around while paying for it.

"Oh, Shep," Kasumi sighed.

Shepard shook herself. "Sorry. You said?"

"I said, I managed to resurrect enough of the data to do something with, so I sent it to Bau. No sense sitting on it any longer," the thief answered succinctly. "You do look a little tired."

"No rest for the wicked, you know."

"So what's your excuse?"

Shepard found herself half-smiling ruefully. "I took a vacation once. The galaxy noticed."


	134. Intermission

Author's Note: This story assumes Kasumi waits outside so as not to be 'sensed' by any attentive asari.

-J-

"It's not like we're asking that much," Tela Vasir sighed, shaking her head slowly. Her neck ached from tiredness, her shoulders pulled tight. Or maybe just _pulled_ , she thought morosely. She could voice for what everyone already knew: don't let a Reaper get close enough to grab you. Getting grabbed was so rarely a good thing.

"I just wish they'd let us do our _jobs_ and not this 'go have a look and report back to us' bullshit," Lysana said, also shaking her head. "I mean, what's to look at? They're ugly, they'll eat anything that stands still long enough. I'd rather be finding out what's more effective than 'scream and shoot until they don't get back up.'"

"Not screaming might help. Then it's harder to tell where you are," Arctus observed dryly.

"Wow," Lysana gasped, her features contorting theatrically. " _What_ a concept. If one of those things sneaks up and grabs _you_ by your kit, I want to hear you not scream." She flexed her fingers at the turian, whose mandibles flicked in disinterest at the excess of enthusiasm.

"Not much to grab on a turian, sweetheart. All internal, remember?" Arctus pointed out before disappearing behind his cup of dextro coffee.

Vasir sighed. Arctus was known for his abstinence from caffeine. That could only mean he was putting off his next stim, probably hoping that after his meeting with Quentius he could just go home and go to bed. Easier to process caffeine quickly than a stim.

"I _have_ a turian sweetheart, and there's _plenty_ to grab, I _assure_ you," Lysana answered pertly. "Wish I had him _here_ , though…"

"Please, just stop there. I don't wanna hear this," Vasir interposed as Arctus began to grin.

"Why?" Lysana frowned. "You make it sound like you've never—"

" _That's_ why I don't need to hear it. 'Cause it means hearing it _again_. Specifically, from _you_." Because if there was one thing Vasir didn't need, it was Lysana talking more than she absolutely had to. The batteries on that girl never wound down, so the mouth seemed to be a constant blur of pointless chatter.

The door at the end of the hall hissed open, the VI's low drone announcing 'Shepard, human.' A moment later, Shepard herself walked in, looking nervous, eyes darting around the three Spectres currently waiting to speak to their Councilors, and the three more out in the shooting lanes.

"Heya, Shepard," Lysana waved cheerily.

"Lysana. Vasir," Shepard nodded to Arctus, who nodded back if only to avoid accusations of rudeness.

Vasir nodded, Shepard's crawling discomfort over their last meeting oozing from her drift like something oily and gross.

"Relax. Half the people in this room have tried to kill each other before," Lysana put in, as if this was normal, even for Spectres. "It's just one of those things, am I right?"

"Half means just two," Shepard put in.

Vasir shrugged. "Let's just don't make a habit of it, and not talk about it. Okay?"

"Sounds good." With that, Shepard buried herself at the terminal in the far room.

"Any advice from our expert elite Reaper killer?" Arctus asked.

"Shoot first, questions are kind of pointless," Shepard answered, looking up from the terminal. "And dig the bullet out _fast_ if you take one. Don't let it…uh…ferment. I guess." She went back to whatever she was doing.

"Wow. Take the grossest thing I can imagine, Reaper bullets, and make them that much grosser. _Fermenting_?" Lysana shuddered.

Shepard simply shrugged.

Arctus' omnitool lit up, causing him to exhale slowly. "That's me," he announced needlessly. "Get some heat on that shoulder, yeah?" He patted Vasir's good shoulder as he loped out of the room.

"Get some _sleep_ ," Vasir returned.

"I wish." With that, Arctus disappeared from the room, taking the shortcut that would let out a little closer to his own Embassy.

The Spectres' office was an odd hub of spaces in appropriated chunks, connected by hallways and Keeper tunnels until it reminded Vasir of an underground burrow. The amazing thing was how few people ever realized the Spectres, as an organization, _had_ something approximating office space. Most of the entrances were the sort and style easy to overlook, placed beside important spaces people wouldn't want to risk disturbing a possible annex of.

A moment later, Shepard pushed away from the terminal, looked around as if she expected to see someone, then strode out the way she'd come, the brisk step of a career soldier with a clear line of action to follow betraying none of the weary discomfort her drift revealed.

Lysana's omnitool flared. "Ah, that's me. Hang tough, Tela."

"Goodnight," was all Vasir said.

The silence of the space pressed against Vasir's eardrums. The silence in response to the report she'd submitted nearly four hours ago pressed against her consciousness. It took only a little time of look-and-see to see the truth: if it was vitally important to the survival of the asari people, it needed to be removed from Thessia. Because when the Reapers got there, they were just going to roll over everything in their way, and then it would be too late.

She'd been around the galaxy, she'd seen what the Reapers were doing. Thessia was no longer a safe haven, even if the Reapers did seem content to leave it alone. She knew why they were leaving it alone, too: because the asari people, evidenced by the curt 'thank you for submitting your findings' in her inbox, were content to believe that Thessia _was_ safe, _was_ unassailable, because it always had been.

The asari, Vasir thought sourly, would stay out of the fighting in any meaningful sense until the Reapers acted against them. "And then, you dumbasses, it'll be too damn late," she said waspishly, crossing her arms and winching as her shoulder protested.

It wasn't pretty, she thought, rubbing the injured muscles, how efficient the Reapers were. And how aware of their enemies' psychologies.

Vasir's omnitool flared, the message from…Councilor Quentius.

That was unexpected.


	135. Guilt

Kasumi Goto loitered, unobtrusively outside the door through which Shepard disappeared. Even if she hadn't been secure in her stealth field, she felt grateful that people here were too busy to notice someone who gave the impression of having the right to be where she was, apparently doing nothing.

' _What happened on the Collector base? It wasn't your fault._ ' She hadn't liked the look on Shepard's face when she said it; it was too similar to the look she saw in the mirror every time she had to think about that horrific moment when danger and reality rose up and overwhelmed her: ' _It was mine, and you need to understand that none of it was yours._ '

She didn't see how Shepard came to that conclusion, but Kasumi supposed it was one of those soldier-things one had to _be_ a soldier to really understand.

Her stomach churned uncomfortably, the doubt that breakdown had sown rearing its head.

She closed her eyes to mere slits, watching the world through her lashes, willing the discontent, the distress to subside. She willed herself not to ask if she was a coward, if she could have done something differently.

It was strange. Part of her blamed Shepard for putting her in that situation…right up until Shepard agreed that she shouldn't have allowed Kasumi on the away team, even though everyone else was going.

It was one of those 'damned if you do' situations, Kasumi decided. If she'd been told she was staying behind, when everyone else was going, she'd have been angry, hurt, and resentful. As it was, she'd spent plenty of time angry, hurt, and resentful, wondering if her weakness was the result of cowardice or some intrinsic _fault_.

Oddly enough, hearing that Shepard blamed herself disinclined Kasumi from much residual resentment.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't. It went for both of them, Kasumi decided with a mental sigh. The recognition of the situation for what it was probably wouldn't help in the immediate, but eventually it might. At any rate, she didn't feel the need to demand answers she now felt certain Shepard didn't have, couldn't give.

But she wasn't going to volunteer for anything Shepard was involved in. Not a second time. No way. She'd learned her lesson: teams and causes weren't her bag of flavored rice puffs. She was a thief, a tech expert. Gung-ho galaxy-saving missions were just _not_ her thing. Leave it to people who were good at it, like Shepard and Vakarian.

Thinking about Vakarian left her remembering those few days between returning from the Omega-4 Relay and her own quiet, unannounced departure. She hadn't felt _blamed_ , hadn't felt _marginalized_ …but she'd felt out of place. She hadn't been one of the crewmen, desperate for rescue from a situation they absolutely couldn't save themselves from; nor was she one of Shepard's frontliners, dropping Collectors and husks with extreme prejudice and efficiency.

She had never experienced such a sensation of _not belonging._ The very oppressiveness of it made it impossible to stay, had left her feeling as if she had to gasp for breath, was on the verge of screaming _don't look at me!_

She felt better now, but thought she'd rather not go back to the Normandy.

How many of the crew the Collectors took felt the same way? They'd go if they could, they wanted to, even, because it meant backing Shepard up as she tried, again, to do the impossible…but they just couldn't.

But they, Kasumi's devil's advocate observed, had been prisoners, kidnapped and terrorized. Not free and able to act.

She shook herself, hoping in so doing to shake off the morose thoughts. It was in the past. It was done. No one could change it, no one could fix it. Everyone had limits…

…stars, she'd begun to hate that phrase. 'Everyone has limits.' Why had hers sucked so bad, been so…subpar…compared to the others? Did Shepard even _have_ limits?

Which was something worrying her—and a better worry to concentrate on, if she was determined to mope and 'morose all over the place.' She didn't remember who she'd known who used 'morose' as a verb, but it seemed apropos. Everyone had limits. The question bothering her was whether or not Shepard knew hers…and whether or not she respected them.

She probably did, but didn't have a choice but to push past them. Kasumi only hoped that Shepard hadn't done so already: some limits existed to be broken, while others were there for a reason.

The door hissed open to reveal Shepard, looking tired but alert.

No. She hadn't reached her non-negotiable limits yet. Unfortunately, it looked to Kasumi like Shepard was starting to push against the negotiable ones.

Shepard's bright eyes panned across the hall, then she cocked her head as if to indicate she'd found what was needful, then began her brisk march towards the lifts.

Kasumi fell in behind her, grateful not to have to stand there, inactive and ruminating, any longer. She hated not having enough to do and it made her maudlin.

But Kasumi noted the line of Shepard's shoulders, the tension in her jaw muscles. Someone needed several regular sessions a week with a good masseur. Kasumi would bet Shepard was carrying some gnarly tension.

Probably an understatement.

The lift door slid closed behind them. "So," Kasumi asked, watching Shepard flinch at the abrupt sound, even though she had to be expecting it. That was odd, since Shepard wasn't the sort to flinch easily. Nerves on high alert? On the Citadel?

Maybe she ought to find out when Shepard's birthday was. A couple sessions a week with a _really good_ masseur made a fabulous birthday gift.

"Seen anyone from the old crew?" It was the safest subject Kasumi could think of. Doubtless most of them had queued up to rejoin Shepard one more time.

Kasumi forcibly pushed away the niggling question of whether she felt—or ought to feel—guilty at not jumping to join up, herself.


	136. Good News

Diana Allers stretched her shoulders as she sat before the blank screen of her word processor. She'd been there for several hours, but hadn't accumulated any meaningful outlines, to say nothing of anything more coherent than that time she typed out 'this is stupid' about sixty times just to keep her fingers warmed up and ready to go for when the thoughtful funk finally cracked like an egg to release something useful.

One would have thought—as Allers had before having tried it—that being on the Normandy, at the frontline of this war, would be full of news.

Well, technically it _was_ , she thought as she rubbed at her eyes. The problem was how she couldn't _talk_ about so much of it. There were a few easily spotted off-limits topics right off the bat: Javic (was she even spelling his name right? Javick? Jahvik?), for one. EDI for another. You only needed hearsay about Shepard to know she took her crew's privacy seriously. It was one thing if they said it was alright to be interviewed, but Allers hated stand-alone interviews. It was the mark of a hack with no imagination, someone who needed a cheap stopgap.

Besides, if she tried to talk about living Protheans or AIs in control of Alliance warships (with mobile platforms for those hard-to-reach operations) she'd be blacklisted by the journalistic community to the point that not even a fifth-rate rag sheet would employ her.

The very thought elicited a wry laugh. Peer pressure, alive and well.

She had no idea what Dr. T'Soni—only daughter of _the_ Matriarch Benezia, there was a story there, Allers didn't need to be a reporter to know that—was up to, but whatever it was was pretty tech-intensive and extremely hush-hush. And Dr. T'Soni's smiling declaration that there was plenty of news outside her personal space; that smile was one of the most amazing warning flags for curious reporters Allers had ever seen in her life.

Naturally, she didn't expect to be able to talk about this krogan alliance—well, 'peace summit' was the buzz phrase being used—she'd heard whispers about (and pretended she hadn't) until _after_ it was a thing…or after some (or most) of the delegates were smears on the floor, walls and ceiling while the second string negotiated. Well, maybe that was expecting a bit much; she'd picked up that the krogan clan chief and Shepard went way back.

Damn, but the woman had interesting friends.

She couldn't very well say that Primarch Victus was using the Normandy as a mobile command hub; it would make the ship a bigger target than it already was. She also felt it would step on the Primarch's toes somehow. He gave the impression that anyone who stepped on _his_ toes got their stepped on right back.

Allers sighed again, slouching in her chair. It was too early to go to bed, but way late for caffeine; she'd never get to sleep, and if there was one trick to living on an active warship—as she'd discovered—it was to go with the flow and keep the same hours as everyone else. Unfortunately for her, night owl that she was, the military seemed to favor early mornings.

Well, that was why caffeine existed, and like most of the navy she was content being a caffeine junkie if it got her through the day.

Allers closed the word processor and opened the file with her unfinished segments, scanning the brief summaries for each and making faces at them. Fortunately, there was plenty out there of the bread and butter variety. But it was so depressing, looking at casualties, worlds lost, worlds under threat—and she was about to revamp her VI's mail sorting settings. She had readers mailing in all the time, but it was worse now since people seemed to think that if they couldn't contact Shepard directly, they _could_ go through Allers herself. As if she had the Captain's ear. Shepard was civil, polite even, but not inclined to let Allers pass messages along…unless that message advanced the war effort, but in that case the message in question should go to Traynor.

Allers rubbed her eyes again, opening her mail node and wincing at the number of new messages.

That poor woman didn't need the 'please save my investment' messages. She really didn't need the really heartbreaking ones. It left Allers feeling chilled as she confronted the fact that Shepard was only one woman. Sure, she'd killed a Reaper a few years back, rumor was there was another when she hit the Collector Base, but…

She stared at the number of new messages. A new one appeared, the counter bumping one digit.

She wondered if this period of apparent inaction, of having to politic and play diplomat, chafed the soldier. Did Shepard looked at herself in the mirror before bed and demanded of herself 'what have I actually _accomplished_ today? Was it worth the death toll?'

And what was it like when the answer was 'nothing much, so no, it wasn't?'

Allers shivered, glad that burden didn't rest on her shoulders. But knowing it was there, seeing it for what it was, it meant she could help. If in doubt, see if there was a positive cant on something. She knew Shepard watched _Battlespace_ when she could, if only to hear the pieces she vetted as text. It was faster to read than watch, after all, and Shepard only had so many hours in the day. Maybe it would help, to know there was a little good news out there.

Allers went back to her pile of half-finished articles and began scanning them with more attention. Good news was hard to come by, and never sold as well as bad news. Maybe it said something about her, personally, that finding _some_ scrap of it suddenly seemed so important.

Something fortunate, hopefully. It would suck to discover she was burning out this early on in the game.

-J-

Author's Note: Life has taken a rather rough turn, and is less than kindly lately. Updates will probably be sporadic while things are so messed up, but I did want to thank all my readers and reviewers for their support of this story. It really means the world to me.


	137. Inconspicuous

Shepard's nose wrinkled as she loitered, waiting in an inconspicuous corner for Bau. Kasumi, from preference, sat on the floor. Although Shepard couldn't see her, she could feel the thief's foot against her own, could imagine Kasumi sitting with her knees drawn up, arms loose around them, the way she often did while aboard the Normandy. If Kasumi was smart—and she was—she'd be trying to snatch a few minutes of rest. Chasing down the hanar proved more complicated than expected, with the result that in a few hours the Embassies' working day would start.

Soul names. The only thing she really knew about hanar soul names was what Thane—his people being kind of like honorary hanar themselves—had told her: they were private, something shared only between very close friends.

She missed Thane painfully sometimes. Theirs was a friendship, strangely enough, based on silence. A silence that neither demanded filling nor demanded maintenance. She glanced at the cuff of her omnitool; ignoring her own exhaustion left her mind groping for things to focus on. In this case, Thane's insistence that if she ever needed him, she wasn't to take things like a late hour into consideration. She had his address here on the Citadel, but hadn't yet taken up his reiterated invitation that if she needed him, she should come visit and shouldn't concern herself with trifling details like the lateness of the hour.

Well, arguably it had stopped being late and was now early. The crackling energetic results of several stims left her aware of how much she hated using them. When she held up a hand, she found it trembled slightly, frowned at the shaking.

"You get used to it," Bau's voice announced as he slipped through a bank of people. To her surprise, the salarian held out a hand and helped pull her to her feet. "Ready?"

Kasumi's foot vanished, leaving Shepard to get up and try to ignore the disorientation caused by knowing the other woman was present but not knowing where. Shepard found the invisible presence subtly disturbing, though she knew she oughtn't. It wasn't like Kasumi could just wander around with the group without raising questions: Shepard and Bau were both plainclothes.

"It's your show, I'll back you up."

Bau gave her a lopsided grin. "Shouldn't be too hard. Hanar don't like confrontation for a reason." His tone said 'they're just not good at it.'

 _All species train assassins. The hanar are only unique in that they need another species to do it for them. They have a strong grip and natural toxins, but have you ever seen a hanar move quickly outside of water? Or handle a gun?_

Well, this one was Indoctrinated. It probably wouldn't care about confrontation. "How much backup do you think he's got?"

Bau activated his omnitool and casually held it out. On the tiny interface was what clearly resulted from a tap into Embassy security.

Four, which was a little heavy for the standard diplomat on the Citadel, but with Thane's words echoing in her head, four sounded about right. All seemed to be fairly well-dressed, the kinds of bodyguards who blended in, not the Terminus model she'd grown accustomed to. She'd bet these fellows all went in for manicures and to get their hair trimmed once a week.

But they were armed, and the cuts of jackets showed that they weren't relying simply on shields, though the probably had those, too.

Damn Reaper tech, because of course everyone wanted to think they were the special ones, they were the ones who could avoid the dangers the stuff posed. People just couldn't _not_ _mess_ with the stuff.

Idiots.

"Thoughts?" Bau asked, retracting his arm and making a show a fiddling with his omnitool.

"Seeing that we're a little short on information, see if we can get him talking. Tools like him usually aren't in a chatty mood by the time I catch up with them."

Bau's sour chuckle said 'I can only imagine.'

Husks were disobliging like that. Even if they could talk, it wasn't like they knew anything. Not even their own names.

"Is it always like this?" Shepard asked, watching a lift disgorge half a dozen well-dressed people, all carrying cups of stimulant and little white pastry bags. They cut such a strong contrast to her and Bau's 'early morning at work' that it caught her strangely flat-footed.

"Often enough," Bau responded, following her gaze. "Still, what they don't know won't help them, right?" His tone was one of placid indulgence; beneath it, she thought she sensed a detached sort of regard. These people moved predictably, as far as Bau was concerned, and he was content to let them wear ruts of predictability in the landscape of his world because it meant keeping them out of his way. How could one argue with predictability that facilitated one's own goals?

She could see where he was coming from…she just found the sheer _normalcy_ strange given the state of the galaxy. As she'd said to Joker just the other day, 'at least it's not riots in the streets.'

Not yet, anyway.

"Right."

They stopped before Zymandis' office. An invisible hand appeared on her arm, silent proof of where Kasumi stood. The squeeze suggested 'wait.' Shepard palmed the door, but the panel flashed. Another squeeze on her arm as she moved as if fiddling with the panel. The panel flashed green. "Alright, say when," Shepard announced, mouthing 'thank you' and wondering if the word-shapes she used would make any sense to Kasumi.

"When," Bau responded easily.

Shepard hit the panel, the door whisked open, and Bau strode in, casually enough but clearly ready to go for a weapon. She and Kasumi followed closely at his shoulder. She couldn't see to say for certain, but Shepard felt certain the thief broke away from the group, to find a spot away from the possible action's flashpoint, somewhere she could be useful.

Somewhere like an unlocked terminal, for instance.


	138. Use Your Head

"Zymandis? Or should I say, 'Regards the Works of the Enkindlers in Despair'?" Bau asked lightly.

No one had weapons out yet, but while the security detail's hands inched slowly, almost innocently towards theirs, Shepard and Bau were already prepared to draw. Tension buzzed in the room as both sides toed the line that would result in a bloodbath if crossed.

So maybe these idiots weren't Indoctrinated themselves, just following what they thought were legal orders.

Unseen, Kasumi grinned as she broke away from Shepard's shoulder. The spacious office was nice, but for once the opportunity to lift a few trinkets—because no one would be watching for those disappearing into thin air when Bau and Shepard stood there with remarkably similar grim expressions distorted by socially acceptable veneers of smiles—would just have to pass her by. What she wanted was to be somewhere she could do some good, and that meant a nice unlocked terminal.

Unfortunately, the hanar hovered by it like a raincloud over a picnic.

"It seems this one has been apprehended," the hanar responded in that toneless render characteristic to their translational software, his body gleaming and shining in mesmerizing patterns. "But confinement is irrelevant: the work of the Enkindlers cannot be stopped."

"But you're helping the Reapers," Shepard pointed out. "I don't follow."

"Do you not, Captain? You are aware that the Protheans eventually became the Collectors. The Collectors serve the Reapers. Therefore, as a faithful servant of the Enkindlers, we too must serve the Reapers."

This did seem to wrong-foot the security apes, several of them exchanging uneasy looks.

Shepard's expression darkened, her bright eyes narrowing.

Uh-oh. Wrong thing to say. Kasumi grinned: she supported religious freedom for all sapients, but this? This was just crazy. There needed to be less crazy in the galaxy, especially right now.

"You big stupid…jellyfish…" Bau growled, his eyes narrowing as well, the lines of tension in his wiry body shifting.

Ouch.

"You boys might want to wait outside," Shepard suggested calmly, her attention not wavering from the hanar.

If the hanar had eyes, it might have cast the two Spectres a look of pitying condescension. "Your skepticism is irrelevant. When the Enkindlers uplift us as their chose—"

" _Now_ ," Shepard growled, looking away from the hanar to fix each of the security apes with a look that conveyed this was their one chance to leave under their own steam; otherwise, they'd leave in a bag.

Looking glad of the opportunity, all four of Zymandis' guards—hands carefully in view and away from any concealed weapons—filed past Shepard and out of the room.

Something about the scene bothered Kasumi. She thought maybe the two Spectres sensed it, some kind of wrongness about the picture being presented. Maybe it was the way Zymandis didn't seem to care that no one could stop Shepard and Bau from arresting him, or even killing him, because Bau was practical enough not to risk letting an Indoctrinated agent wander around.

Kasumi edged closer to Zymandison soft cat feet, like the fog creeping across a bay. She couldn't read the screen before the hanar, but the hairs on the nape of her neck began to stand up. She _did_ recognize the device Zymandis casually swept off the desk and with one tentacle affixed beneath the terminal.

She cued her omnitool, hastily manufacturing a techmine, her breath catching. "Shep," she called. "Whatever he's doing—he's already done it!"

Bau flinched at the disembodied tone as Shepard snapped, "Step away from the console."

Zymandis waved his tentacles. "Khaje's defenses are mostly automated, but they are susceptible to a virus. Which I have already uploaded—"

Bau's pistol was out of its hidden holster, a bullet in the hanar's center of mass, before Shepard finished drawing hers.

Kasumi stepped across the hanar's body, dropping out of stealth as she palmed her techmine beside Zymandis' nasty little booby trap. She'd seen such devices before: a low-level sensor field that emitted a high-level electrical shock to anything that passed through it. In this case, the field hung over the interface.

"A virus would be detected unless sent on a low priority channel! We may still have time," Bau announced hastily. He might have stepped around the console, but Shepard caught his shoulder.

Shepard met Kasumi's eyes, which Kasumi took to mean that Shepard saw her lay down a countermeasure but Bau hadn't. And, not knowing the device's function or Kasumi's intentions with is, Shepard didn't want Bau too close.

Ah, Shep knew her so well: she might enjoy Shepard's support, but the fact remained that she _was_ a master thief in a small room with two Spectres (and there might be another or two outside, keeping the security goons company if they were). An escape route was just prudential in a scenario like this. She didn't think Shepard would arrest her, but she'd rather spare the woman any disagreeable scenes with Bau. He was good people, after all.

But she wasn't going to jail to oblige him. No way. Jail was boring. And moving targets were hard to hit.

Kasumi's fingers flew over the console.

"Kasumi?" Shepard asked edgily.

Oh, she of little faith. Kasumi wanted to laugh, to reassure the two Spectres who—without anything constructive to do—looked like wet birds, fussy and with ruffled feathers. Spectres didn't 'do nothing' well, and 'standing by, doing nothing' was harder for such action-oriented people.

Zymandis wasn't a genius, and being Indoctrinated had to take 'not genius' even further down than 'not even clever.' Because, of course, it always helped when you could easily discover what you were looking for so you could pull it out of queue. Now, if it succeeded in passing out of queue, then they might have problems…but there….there it was. "I've almost got it," Kasumi answered. Her hands continued flying over the console as she gently brought her knee up until she found Zymandis' and her own techmines.

"Wait…oh no! Down!" Kasumi cried.


	139. Accessory

To find Ms. Goto in the room shocked Bau for about half a second. In retrospect, he ought to have expected it: she was working with him now, albeit at a distance; she'd worked closely with Shepard in the past. And now both of them were on the same case. It made sense for Ms. Goto to have inserted herself on the side least likely to arrest her so she might keep an eye on the mission she'd helped get rolling.

Bau had to give Shepard credit for quick reflexes. He also made a mental note that, if he ever had to work with her in future, to remember that she had _team mentality_ reflexes. Most Spectres would have trusted one of their own to quickly heed a command like 'down!' Shepard, however, grabbed him, snagged his ankle with her own, and sent them both crashing to the floor with a practiced ease that made him think she spent way more time reacting to unexpected stimuli than anyone—even a Spectre—should.

Or maybe he just wasn't taking the right jobs and was out of practice. The though concerned him…but chances were he'd find himself ducking from unexpected stimuli plenty in the near future. Few people would know, but the Citadel hadn't seen this few Spectres on station at any given time in a long, long time. He doubted even the Council was aware just how few agents made up the 'Spectre presence' just now.

If they had known, they might never get to sleep at night.

His forehead impacted painfully with the tile as, somewhere overhead and out of sight, something exploded and Ms. Goto let loose an agonized scream.

"Kasumi?" A brief pause. "Kasumi!"

"Oof!" Bau groaned as Shepard, having flung an arm out to protect the back of his head, suddenly put all her weight on his back as she pushed to her feet. The momentary weight knocked the air out of him.

"Oh, Kasumi…" Shepard whispered.

Forehead aching, Bau got to his own feet and came around the console.

Shepard had shoved Zymandis' body carelessly aside, making room for the prostrate form of Ms. Goto, whose stealth field generator flickered and fizzled, clearly damaged by whatever booby trap Zymandis had on the console. The master thief lay very still as Shepard untangled her twisted limbs.

The hanar looked strange, body taking on a matte finish appearance in death, its inner luminescence quenched. It also looked small, with its tentacles coiled and piled up on themselves. He briefly wished he had something to hand that he could drape over the body; he'd seen enough hanar to know how obscene the corpse looked just now. Let some journalist get a photo of that, let them put it on the Extranet, and the outcry against 'Spectre brutality' would be instantaneous and overwhelming. He wondered how long it had taken for him to take PR into consideration without actively thinking about it. With a sigh, he slipped his jacket off and let it fall over the corpse. Never let it be said Jondam Bau lacked common decency.

Shepard's expression was hard as she tugged the thief's hood—momentarily visible, then invisible as the generator's field spasmed—as far forward as she could.

"She was here the whole time?" he demanded.

"She was a friend," Shepard answered simply, looking a bit at a loss. "And braver than she knew."

"I was going to arrest her."

Shepard's eyes gleamed in her face. "Not a lot of point now though, is there?" She sniffed, then swallowed hard, gaze falling to the flickering in and out of visibility corpse. "I'll take care of this. She was my crew."

The words brooked no argument.

And, Bau suspected, it would have worked on most people. But he had the idea that Ms. Goto was not quite as dead as she looked because Shepard's presentation of grief was not what he expected from his assessments of her. Also, that smack of his forehead to the floor, possessing enough force to make it a stunning blow…

No, he rather suspected the two women were putting on a pretty little improv for him.

Bau sighed, rubbing his tender forehead gently. What the hell, why not? It wasn't as if anything in the galaxy made sense just now. Spectres made this kind of call all the time, where it was better to let someone go than to adhere to word of law and drag them in.

Besides, if Shepard could find a way make use of Ms. Goto's prodigious talents, she ought to have the opportunity to do so.

"Of course. Will you need any assistance?" he asked.

"No, thank you."

"I'll get this cleaned up and squared away. I'll need a few minutes to make some arrangements."

Shepard nodded. "Thanks, Bau."

"Don't thank me. Call it professional courtesy." With that, Bau stepped out of the office to find Lysana sitting on a bench nearby. Arctus was nowhere to be seen, though both Spectres had appeared in response to his request for backup. There was too great an opportunity for collateral damage if things got ugly; it was always good to have a few people to play second string, especially this close to one of the Spectre Offices points of entry.

Lysana fell into step with him, spoke in a brisk, quiet tone. "Arctus moved security down to the C-Sec Academy, somewhere quiet and out of sight."

"Ah, good." He needed to give Shepard enough time to 'move Ms. Goto's body' or, as the case was, give Ms. Goto time to move herself. It shouldn't take long.

"Everything good?"

"Oh, yes. Everything's fine."

"Good." The asari nodded once, then yawned. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going home. There's a bubble bath calling my name."

Bau smiled as Lysana struck off. Such a cheerful woman. He wondered how dreadfully unhappy she had to have been at one point to make such prodigious, unwavering use of cheerfulness as she did now.


	140. Food For Thought

"Alright. He's gone." Shepard's hand, resting atop her own, vanished after a squeeze. "And there's a footage loop to cover your exit, stage left."

Kasumi disengaged her stealth field generator, turning it off before turning it back on, then rolled to her feet. "You don't seem at all surprised," she observed as Shepard pried the techmine that had, when activated, partially neutralized the charge Zymandis had planted and which resulted in shorting out her stealth generator.

Which should, she thought fondly, be fine once it came back online.

Shepard grinned, the skeletal form of Kasumi's own tech mine in one hand. "You're the best. Countering an Indoctrinated jellyfish? You could do it with your eyes closed."

Kasumi approved the conviction in Shepard's tone. However, she also suspected Shepard was working her way around to the elephant in the room. "That's very sweet, Shepard. But there is _no way_ you're recruiting me to fight in a galactic war."

Shepard actually looked hurt for a moment. "I wasn't going to," she answered softly. "I learn from my mistakes."

Kasumi frowned, ignoring the sting in the comment, the unspoken assurance that Shepard would not ask Kasumi to go anywhere near a frontline. She'd just work shorthanded. "I can't just sneak into a Reaper base and steal a big 'I win!' bomb!" Kasumi protested.

Shepard didn't smile. "No, but there's a project, top secret, that we think might be the key to beating them. And it needs all the help it can get."

"I'm not a scientist." How very like Shepard, Kasumi thought. Never waste a resource, but taking into account what she knew about her resources. A top secret Reaper-fighting project was likely to be somewhere fairly safe…but it needed, as she said, all the help it could get. No frontlines for non-frontliners.

"No, and I'm not asking you to be," Shepard agreed. "But you _are_ the best thief in the galaxy, and you can do constructive things with unfamiliar tech better than anyone. They could use your help." There they were, the Shepard equivalent of puppy dog eyes.

"Did you really mean what you said over my supposedly dead body?" Kasumi deflected, levering herself to sit on the desk near the burnt-out terminal.

Shepard looked her dead in the eyes. "Yes." The conviction was impossible to mistake, impossible to be feigned.

 _She was a friend, and braver than she knew._ The words made Kasumi's guts squirm.

"Think of it this way: all that expensive tech just lying around. What are they gonna do when this is over? Check your pockets?"

Kasumi laughed, the sound eliciting an upturn to the serious line of Shepard's mouth. "You say the nicest things. Alright, put away your puppy eyes. I'll do it." It saved her having to come up with 'how to help?' on her own.

"Thank you."

"You do know Bau doesn't _really_ believe I'm dead?" Kasumi asked.

Shepard shrugged. "People like you."

That was certainly true. "Well, let's get out of here. I'm starving. Is it too early for breakfast?"

"Me too. Want to grab some?"

"Sure. You lead." Kasumi turned on her stealth generator. The field flickered, then settled into place. Shepard turned on her heel and marched out, looking so grim that only someone of incredibly obliviousness would interrupt the train of her thoughts.

Kasumi grinned as she followed at a trot. They were silent until Shepard climbed after her into the cab. "So, what do you like for breakfast?" Kasumi asked, not bothering to disengage the stealth field just yet.

"Been up all night, so I could probably eat anything. Uh…I don't do raw seafood. Bad experience."

Kasumi giggled. She couldn't help it. Shepard did look as if being confronted with raw seafood might be enough to make her go pale with apprehension. "Does it help to think of Harbinger as _nigiri_?" The first, last, and only time the monstrosity could ever be called cute, Kasumi mused as she imagined the picture, cartoonish and ridiculous.

"I dunno. Can you make _nigiri_ with squid?" Shepard asked.

Somehow, Kasumi suspected Shepard didn't know one kind of _sushi_ from another. Then again, _sushi_ for her was probably what a peanut butter (she shivered in distaste) and jelly sandwich was for a much younger Shepard: it was just what you put in a lunchbox. "Oh, yes."

Shepard considered, then shook her head. "I end up with Indoctrinated armies of rice balls. Sorry."

Kasumi could imagine that, an army of cute _onigiri_ with little faces and strange circuitboard wraps instead of _nori._ "Don't be. I don't think being overly imaginative would help you sleep at night, Shep."

"How about nachos?" Shepard suddenly asked, looking as if an idea had just struck her.

"As long as you don't have any of that nasty plastic cheese sauce on it," Kasumi answered dryly.

Shepard shuddered. "No problem." She turned on her omnitool and began searching through the various eateries on the Citadel, open at this hour.

Fortunately, Kasumi mused, the Citadel never really slept. The only people that cared about 'business hours' were either politicians or mom-and-pop establishments. Everyone else knew not to miss an opportunity for profit.

"Burrito Gong," Shepard announced. "Open, not busy, reasonably priced, scores well on reviews. Still…Burrito _Gong_?"

It sounded like someone was mixing their metaphors, which meant it was probably a salarian running the place. Salarians understood well the benefits of mass appeal…and human curiosity. Kasumi leaned over to look at the screen displaying all this information. "As long as they aren't using plastic cheese."

A few fingers across the interface brought up the menu, with pictures.

No plastic cheese appeared in any of the images. It looked promising. More than that, it looked like the kind of thing one threw together on a Friday night in with the girls. Nachos shouldn't be pretentious. "Looks good to me," Kasumi said with a nod, disengaging her stealth generator. "I need to make a quick stop first. I can't be seen in public like _this_."

-J-

Author's Note: This chapter… I don't know what happened. -_-; Kasumi hijacked it and… yeah…


	141. Morning

Thane Krios blinked at the clock when a knock at the front door sounded. It was early—as he reckoned time—and he wasn't one to receive many visitors. Kolyat knocked, then entered, but this visitor waited patiently. A knock, not the doorbell, so someone didn't want to disturb him if he was asleep, but it was someone who knew him well enough to know it was likely that he _wasn't_ asleep.

Thane prowled up to the small security panel and found Shepard looking directly at the camera on the other side. "Good morning, Shepard."

"Thane," she nodded.

"Come in."

She did so, glancing around with the practiced ease of someone used to taking in details quickly.

She'd been out all night; there was something in the way her uniform wrinkled, and the quiver imparted by nearly-spent stims. It must have been a taxing night for her to seek company rather than go back to the Normandy for some rest.

"I hope I didn't pick a bad time?"

"Of course not. I was about to make breakfast. Would you care to join me?"

"I had nachos with Kasumi about an hour ago."

"Tea, then?"

"Thank you."

Thane fixed the steaming stimulant, then handed the cup to Shepard, who perched on one of the barstools facing the kitchen counter workspace. "How is Kasumi?"

"Doing better."

"Good. And yourself?"

"Fine. How's Kolyat?"

And, Thane filled in, is he here? Would he find her presence disturbing? Was she going to complicate things just by being present?

So many niggling little worries.

"He is not an early riser," Thane answered easily. "He won't be over before nine."

"Ah."

"But in answer to your actual question, he is well. We took a vacation together whilst you were still incarcerated." She didn't need to know about his episode there, about how his finite amount of remaining time had become suddenly and painfully clear—concrete, rather than something nebulous, as such things always were to the young…until they no longer could be—to Kolyat.

"Oh?"

"Yes. To Earth, oddly enough. We visited one of the deserts. Tell me. Do you consider Earth home?"

Shepard considered the counter as Thane poured batter into the skillet. "No. The _Normandy_ is home. Earth was just for training."

"Further proof that home is where the heart lies."

Silence settled as Thane finished his pancakes, Shepard slouching heavily on the counter. The stims were about to finish wearing off, and it was a good thing Shepard usually preferred to take CRT vehicles than rent a vehicle for her own private use. She shouldn't be driving in that condition.

"I hope you don't mind if I catch the morning reports?"

"Not at all. Always good to know what I've missed." The grim edge of her tone held no sarcasm.

Thane settled on the couch. To be sure, he could have done without the parade of bad news. However, the couch was a comfortable one, and let Shepard settle comfortable for a few minutes and she'd go right to sleep. Twenty minutes or two hours—the best one could expect—would be just the thing to get her back on her feet.

He kept the volume low, watching through averted eyes as he mechanically ate. Her grim expression didn't alter as she watched, then listened with her eyes closed, then went slack where she sat.

Thane left the television running, but changed the channel to something a little lighter, a gentle background noise to encourage the brief respite. Upon returning to the kitchen, he opened the channel to EDI, sending her a brief text message in case Shepard hadn't checked in recently. The working day on the Normandy would start soon, and with Shepard's penchant for trouble he would expect her crew to get antsy if no one knew where their CO was.

 _The_ Normandy _is home. Earth was just for training._

Yes, it was home, and that was where she made her family, though Thane doubted she would ever phrase it like that. But whatever Shepard _said_ , her crew filled that position: they were the ones she loved, the ones she fought for, the ones who were hers.

His omnitool pinged, a polite thank-you from EDI for the update. The AI didn't ask him to pass along any message, so he assumed that there was nothing that couldn't wait until she got back.

Thane opened the hall closet, pulling out a spare blanket for those nights that Kolyat—to use Kolyat's own term—couch surfed. Carefully, with deliberate nonthreatening motions, Thane coaxed Shepard to slump sideways, holding her head so a sudden shift in weight wouldn't disturb her. She looked exhausted.

As he shook out the blanket, then settled it over her—she curled into a tight knot as soon as she was mostly lateral—he found himself debating whether or not to change his mind. He was not in peak condition, that was true, but he understood more about what Shepard needed to remain functional than most. He could see the stress fractures others might miss.

But the desire to be there, to be part of what supported her returned to the idle thought it had to be: she didn't need to watch his slow decline, nor did she need another source of concern which she could gently put off. Shepard didn't know, Thane had concluded, _how_ to accept the support of others, _how_ to rely on that support. She simply didn't know.

His omnitool buzzed briskly. Thane slipped back to his room, closing the door softly so the sound of his conversation wouldn't carry.

"Good morning, Kaidan. I'm glad to hear from you so early." The question was how to get the biotic where he could do some good: back on the _Normandy_. Because Thane might be aware of Shepard's behavior, might be able to spot increases in tension or psychological stress fractures…but Kaidan was the one who could do something constructive about them, because Kaidan was the one Shepard wanted.


	142. Exposed

Jack scowled as Kaidan's face flickered with the onset of comm interference. "Hang on, comm's are shitting out," she growled.

His reply was so garbled she _thought_ he might have been telling her, soldier-like, that comms often suffered in a war…or maybe he was giving her details on how he made up with his girl. She could guess, balance of probability being what it was—did she really just use the phrase 'balance of probability?'—but she wasn't a solider and didn't need his cute little observations about being one.

"Hang on. I'll call you back when we've got more bars. Keep your head down, hero."

Heh. Bars in deep space. Jack severed the call, waited about half a minute, and tried to call back. This time, she got a notice that the Grissom comm grid was experiencing difficulties.

Jack's guts clenched. Grissom, to her knowledge, didn't _have_ comm difficulties. Their gear was too new and shiny to act like a rust-eaten hunk of tin with an antenna and a…whatever the geeks had been playing with. Ancient transmitting devices.

Jack frowned at the device in her hand, apprehension tingling along her spine. To her knowledge, Grissom didn't have problems without announcing them. There should have been a notification by now: ' _to all personnel and students, comms are down because give-a-piss-poor-reason-here and will continued to be down for approximately way-too-frikking-long. Thank you_.'

Couldn't be those Reaper bastards, could it? Grissom still housed plenty of under-eighteens. Granted, most of them would _turn_ eighteen in the next calendar year, but as long as the law recognized them as kids, there would have been an evac order if trouble got 'too close' to the school.

Jack slid out from behind her desk. Something was weird. The tech-heads running Grissom's stuff didn't kick the hub (so they said) without letting everyone know there'd be a service interruption— _especially_ after-hours, when things like the Extranet really needed to be up so the kids could catch up on all those weird dramas they loved so much.

She'd watched a whole two episodes once. She'd mashed the stuffings out of three practice dummies afterwards to cope with the inanity. Stuff like that just wasn't for her. It could have been, but all her suggestions had been laughingly met with the response 'you can't show _that_ on primetime.'

To which she'd responded 'the maybe we should get pay-per-view.'

Nah. She liked the kids alright.

By now, Jack could get almost anywhere she needed to be on the station without having to think about it. So it was no surprise when her train of thought wound up and left her facing the entrance to the tech-heads' domain.

It was locked.

Jack frowned at the panel. The panel said the door was unlocked. She stepped back, then up to it again. The door stayed closed, as if the sensors detecting people who wanted entry couldn't see her.

The nervous tingle turned into full-blown apprehension. The kids' rooms, as far as she knew, didn't even have locks. Maybe something for emergencies—like real emergencies that required crazy high-level clearance to use—but as far as she knew, rooms only _locked_ if there was a reason for them to be locked. And the comm hub didn't have a reason to be locked.

She didn't like locked doors where doors _shouldn't be locked_ …

Jack cued her omnitool. "Yo, Gilligan."

" _Yes, Jack?_ "

Jack grinned. One of the kids, for extra credit, managed to introduce enough code that the station's VI would accept 'Gilligan' as a recognizable 'hey, give me your attention' phrase. "Who's on comms?"

"The current shift in the comm hub consists of: Simpson, Lyle; Kerrigan, Jacen; and Hobbs, Mirabelle."

"Where's Kaylee?"

"Director Sanders is in her office. She had asked not to be disturbed."

"Does she know about the comm disruption?"

"I am not recording any comm disruptions."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "So why's this door locked?"

"I am not recording any locked doors in your vicinity."

Jack glared at the door, stepping back from it as if smoke had suddenly begun to seep from around the edges. "Right. My mistake. Get lost, will ya?"

"Of course, Jack."

Jack flexed a fist, blue-purple light wreathing it. She didn't want to wonder if Kaylee was up to something awful. It was easier to believe one of the techs in there—or someone in with the techs—was up to something.

She released the fist. She couldn't just rip the thing out of its frame on a might…although she would rather have done so than not. She cued her omnitool, entering Kaylee's frequency.

Nothing.

She severed the connection. Re-input Kaylee's frequency.

On the third try, Kaylee picked up. " _Yes, Jack?_ " she sounded harassed, barely holding onto her irritation.

"Yeah, I just got a service disruption for a call to the Citadel, comms is locked down, and Gilligan says I'm stupid or lying. Thoughts?" Jack asked acidly.

"… _I'll be right there. Just…if anyone tries to leave,_ _stall_ _them._ " Kaylee's voice held a grim note Jack had never heard before, a hint of toughness she found unexpected.

'Stall them' right into the middle of next week, Jack appended, nodding as Kaylee hung up. She hoped Kaylee thought to grab a gun or something. Nothing against the security gorillas, but Jack didn't really trust that ilk when things went wrong.

And from what she could tell, things were pretty damn wrong.

Jack eyed the door, one hand raised, biotics thrumming as she waited.

Could they see her? How many systems had been compromised? By who? Why? _How_?

Questions wiggled in and out of Jack's range of focus like so many bugs as she _waited_. But the door facing her stayed shut, the panel swearing to a casual onlooker that it wasn't locked.

Who would want to isolate a station full of kids? Reapers, maybe? Yeah, could be.

But Jack knew that there were things every bit as bad as Reapers and they had a history of messing with kids.


	143. Zero Tolerance

Shepard blinked, realized she was lying down and sat up. For a moment, her surroundings made no sense, then they crystalized. "Thane?" she stood up, automatically folding the blanket that had been draped across her. As she did so, she glanced around the room, found a datapad propped in front of the television, positioned to be one of the first conspicuous objects a cursory look around the room would reveal.

It contained a message from Thane, which proved he was not in his residence.

" _Good morning, Shepard. Forgive me for not being there when you woke, but I couldn't bear to interrupt your rest. I had the impression your night was far more eventful than you felt like discussing. I let EDI know you might be late returning to the Normandy, and there's a plate in the fridge for you. You know how Dr. Chakwas will fuss if she thinks there's a reason._ "

That was true, Shepard thought wryly, more than a little uncomfortable at this intrusion on Thane's hospitality. Couch surfing had never been her style…not, she thought blandly, that she'd ever had anyone she knew well enough to couch surf with. Not since O'Conner died.

" _Lock up after yourself and keep safe. I hope to hear from or see you again soon._ " The drell's smile was benevolent as he turned off the recorder.

Shepard found the plate in the fridge, carefully labeled 'SHEPARD' in a hand to which the letters were unfamiliar. It was the only plate in there, placed conspicuously as if to defy the unease she felt of fishing around in someone else's fridge.

"EDI? Shepard."

" _Good afternoon, Shepard,_ " EDI answered promptly. " _Are you well?_ "

"Yeah, just visiting Thane. Anything come up while I've been gone?" Shepard yawned, perching on the barstool she'd occupied earlier and picking at the unfamiliar (but tasty) food.

" _Specialist Traynor has come across something she thinks might warrant our attention, but apart from that there is nothing that need concern you._ "

Shepard nodded, some of the tension in her shoulders easing. She always expected bad things to happen close to home when she went to sleep. "I'll speak to her as soon as I get back to the ship. Give me…fifteen minutes?"

" _I will inform her. Done. Is there anything else?_ "

"Are we ready to pull out?" Shepard shoved the last of the whatever-it-was into her mouth, then took the dish to the sink and hand washed it. Not knowing where else to put it, she left it in the dish drainer. Working in someone else's kitchen, even just cleaning up after oneself, was weird.

She did feel better for the rest and the food, though.

" _Affirmative. I believe Jeff will appreciate this._ "

-J-

Shepard pushed aside the slightly stodgy sick feeling of not enough sleep as she crossed the bridge, making her way to Traynor's work station. "Traynor. EDI tells me you've got something?"

"Possibly," Traynor answered promptly. "Grissom Academy released a distress transmission about half an hour ago. The Reapers are getting too close for comfort."

Shepard felt the line of her mouth grow thin.

"Normally I wouldn't need to mention it. A turian evac team responded to the signal. But something in the signal sounded…off. When I asked EDI to analyze it…well. It's fake."

The tortured face of David Archer swam before Shepard's mind's eye. _It all seemed so harmless._ "Fake." It was all she could do to reign in a sudden burst of anger.

"Yes, ma'am."

"The fake signal is similar to the signal that lured us to the Collector ship. I have run several verification algorithms," EDI piped up.

"Cerberus?"

"I am reasonably certain," came the AI's prim answer—prim, Shepard hoped, because the AI had difficulty expressing the outrage the situation deserved.

It was one thing for Cerberus to mess with adults. It was another to mess with _kids_.

For an awful moment Shepard saw red, was aware of her pulse hissing in her ears, drowning out the stream of invectives aimed at the Illusive Man. It almost drowned out Traynor's next words, "Apparently whomever faked the signal wants the galaxy to believe the kids are being rescued."

Miranda's voice rang in Shepard's head: _I didn't_ _kidnap_ _her. I_ _rescued_ _her._

Kids. He'd gone after— _was going after_ —kids.

"Joker. You been listening?" she asked brusquely, words clipped in a desire not to give vent to a hiss of outrage.

" _Every word. I've got everything plugged in, just say the word,_ " came the unusually sober response.

"The word."

" _Setting you a speed record, Captain._ "

"Run as many red lights as you need to." Shepard turned her attention to Traynor. "Good catch, Traynor."

Traynor, in spite of the snap of indignation in her dark eyes, shrugged. "It's possible this is simple disinformation."

But Gavin Archer survived Overlord, no matter how much Shepard had wanted to put a bullet between his eyes. She'd stilled the murderous impulse because David had been there, watching, would have had to watch her drag Gavin away, would have had to witness the opening act of a bad ending. He'd seen enough, he hadn't needed to see that. Any of it. There was no reason for scum like Gavin to turn over a new leaf. David was at Grissom. The hell her team busted up could be restarted.

No. Absolutely not. "Good catch," Shepard repeated in a tone that brooked no argument, and elicited a wry smile from Traynor. "EDI, I want the ground team in the conference room in ten minutes. This one's going to take a little discussion."

If only because kids were involved, and while she didn't want to single Javik out, she did want to make it clear to the Prothean that the kids _weren't_ to be easily written off as collateral damage.

She also wanted the team to have time to get over the initial unfocused outrage over Cerberus _going after kids_ so they could make the transition to the proper focused outrage that would benefit the mission.


	144. Tipped

Kahlee Sanders tried to pretend her face wasn't red with tears, that her eyes weren't bloodshot, and that she was annoyed.

The truth was, she _had_ been crying, a combination of grief and fear for friends elsewhere in the galaxy, and simple stress. The agony of not knowing got worse when she had other things preying on her mind. David was a survivor, but…well. They were called ' _Reapers'_ for a reason. On top of this, and somewhat more immediate, was the fallout of allowing the 'almost-eighteens' to stay at Grissom: she was now playing chicken with an evacuation order.

Today, it had just gotten to be too much. She'd been indulging in a good cry in the privacy of her office when Jack's insistent attempts to contact her finally became impossible to ignore. Jack wasn't known for making great effort to reach out to people. For her to try to call twice was weird. Three times meant something was wrong.

And now, Kahlee thought as she looked at the door and sniffled, something was weird.

Jack crackled with energy, a low-level biotic field crawling on her skin as she glared at the door. It amazed Kahlee Jack hadn't torn the room open like a tuna can yet. Apparently working with the kids had been good for her. 'Restrained' was never a word Kahlee would have used to describe Jack.

"It's not responding," Chief Murphy declared. Jack wasn't what Kahlee would call an alarmist, even if she was…sensitive…to things that disrupted her idea of 'situation normal.'

The first thing Kahlee did was ask the chief to join them.

Kahlee took a slow breath. "Jack. Open the door."

The door screamed as Jack flared brilliantly.

A shout from the other side, then the pop-pop of a handgun.

Jack gave a scream, tore the door fully out of its frame, and pushed it bodily into the gunfire. An answering scream indicated she'd smashed the shooter—Kahlee thought it might have been Simpson—with it. Jack was into the room, throwing the door aside before grabbing the would-be assailant. With flashing eyes wide and nostrils dilated, Jack looked utterly feral, furious to the point of being almost beside herself. The inarticulate gurgling growl in her throat seemed utterly appropriate.

Kahlee watched in sickened fascination as a corona of blue light bounced first off a wall, then the ceiling, then the floor, then the ceiling again, the floor, the floor—

Each time the body impacted with a surface, it left a red smudge. By the second impact, he stopped screaming.

"Jack!"

Jack, with a last ugly look, dropped the body with a casual flick of her hands. It landed with a crunch near the corpse of Jace Kerrigan. "What?" came the flat demand.

Murphy moved to the bodies—there, there was Mirabelle's—as Kahlee manned the console. Comms had, in fact, been cut. Cut and blocked the instant no one was on the line.

Kahlee tried to ignore the cold sensation of suddenly finding her crew, her kids, and herself utterly isolated.

The last incoming message seemed to be from a turian vessel, responding to an SOS Kahlee knew she hadn't signed off on. The SOS went out about an hour ago; the turian message came in about twenty minutes ago.

The system was scrambled. Kahlee shuddered as she began poking at it.

"What is it?" Jack asked testily, moving to loom over her shoulder.

"I don't know. I can't really ask Simpson what he was doing, can I?" She didn't mean the remark with any particular sarcasm, though it _would_ have been better if Jack hadn't—

Kahlee looked up when Jack remained silent. She found the skinny woman chewing thoughtfully on her lip, her eyes half-closed in a grimly speculative attitude Kahlee never expected to see on her face. A bony hand came to rest on her shoulder, fingers digging in. "Kahlee, I think we need to round up the kids. Just so we know where they all are, you know?"

It was even stranger to see Jack, clearly wary of something, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. Jack even went so far as to try to smile.

"What are you thinking, Jack?" Murphy asked.

"I'm thinking some shit stinks," Jack answered, tone closer to her regular standoffishness. "And I wanna know where my kids are."

"That might not be a bad idea," Kahlee said slowly. "Jack…?"

"Some shit stinks," Jack said quietly, her gaze suddenly turning inward. For a long moment, so long that even Murphy began to look discomforted. A thin hand went to her elbow, which she began to rub as if to erase remembered discomfort. The morphing of her expression, from the surly, sometimes petulant young adult, to someone very young, to someone old beyond measure left Kahlee feeling even more chilled. "I want to lock down the station, turtle up. I don't…I don't like this, Sanders." Jack's head began to shake, fear and anger beginning to war on her face, each vying for dominance, neither gaining a foothold.

"I think you're right. Can you pull the door back into place behind us?" She could do more from the security hub anyway.

Jack didn't grin, didn't make a joke. She simply nodded, body language screaming her discomfort. "Let's go, before those fuckers show up." For a moment, Jack looked surprised, then puzzled…then grimly angry.

"Jack?" Kahlee asked gently.

Jack's eyes held the wariness of a hunted creature. "Tell the kids there's a problem," she said quietly. "Get what you want from the armory, then lock it down. Lock everything down."

"Jack, what do you know?" Murphy asked sharply.

Jack's eyes flicked over to him, a corona of light crawling over her skin, turning her brilliant tattoos grey. "It's Cerberus."

Kahlee's guts twisted. She'd heard more than a little about Cerberus from David— _both_ Davids, a lot from hers and a little from David Archer. "That's…probably wise. But _tell_ the kids?"

"You _don't_ them, they'll fall for bullshit," Jack answered icily.


	145. Knock Yourself Out

Diana Allers stood with the rest of the ground team (augmented by the shuttle pilot, Steve, Samantha, and Chief Engineer Greg), fighting through a mire of emotions. On the one hand, as Shepard outlined the situation, she felt a sick sort of anger, a burning resentment towards Cerberus.

She doubted anyone in the galaxy would agree with the definition of 'protective custody' Cerberus used.

On the other hand, her presence at the briefing perplexed her to no end. She wasn't military. She was effectively excluded from anything that happened beyond where Bethany and Sarah stood guard. In fact, while it had never been stated, she knew it was the general preference that she _not_ appear on the bridge or in the CIC.

Allers took none of this personally. Simply by proving she could take a hint had to count for something. At the very least, Shepard had sharply yanked on Copeland's leash twenty minutes ago, when delivering the summons to join the meeting in person. In fact, it rather surprised Allers that Shepard _had_ taken a side. ' _Allers is allowed to voice her opinion until_ I _disallow it._ ' Allers expected Shepard to simply send both sides to their respective corners without favor or prejudice. Shepard was nothing if not fair. But the Captain surprised Allers further, after having dismissed Copeland. ' _I'm sorry about that, Ms. Allers. This is Copeland's first war; I'll see if Garrus can broaden his horizons a bit._ '

Copeland's angry accosting of her hadn't so much as scratched Allers' thick skin, thicker still because she thought Shepard agreed with her, that there was an unpleasant calculus behind war that determined who lived and who died. Still, the apology meant something; more than an apology, the promise of action to back it up. Shepard's word was taken as fact, something bankable, on this ship by those who'd served with her before. Even by the newer crew members, Shepard's assurance was something they counted on almost without hesitation.

Almost, because Javik (she'd asked Shepard whether she knew how he spelled his name) didn't trust _anyone_. It must suck being him, Allers thought with a grimace. She'd been in the shower the first time it became apparent that he didn't understand _segregated bathing facilities_. She'd also been the first person to throw something—in that case, her vial of shampoo—at the unexpected male in a female-only zone. The attack came somewhat to the surprise of Gabby (who screeched like an indignant real-life banshee before launching a bar of soap at Javik's chest) and Dr. Chakwas (who, half-dressed, shooed the already retreating Prothean out as she directed him to the men's room before he could be stoned by product containers).

 _Apparently_ , she was expected to freak out and cover up, not do something constructive. At the time, she'd shrugged, averring she had _nothing_ to be ashamed of. Even now, she felt grumpy rather than embarrassed. At the very least, Javik hadn't made the same mistake twice, ornery and boundary-pushing as he was supposed to be. Maybe the shampoo container and bar of soap were evidence enough that if the ladies started going armed into the bathroom he didn't have a chance for his life.

"Alright," Shepard nodded. "Anything else?"

"I think this is a waste of time," Javik put in, ignoring the glares he got from most everyone else.

"And we'd be better off with Cerberus in possession of these people?" Dr. T'Soni asked icily.

"Surely you do not mean to suggest that Shepard is the only capable solider in the galaxy?" Javik retorted.

"Just the only one already on the job," Garrus broke in smoothly. "It'll take hours to pass it to someone else, then we might as well have just stood aside and said 'help yourselves to bright scientific minds and biotic powerhouses.'"

Javik twitched his shoulders. "It does not advance the war against the Reapers."

"Not _directly_ ," Shepard allowed. "But since the Summit is still finalizing, we might as well make the detour. It'll put us in Wrex's neighborhood," she added to the Primarch who, although outside the Alliance's military structure, seemed to be allowed to come and go as he pleased wherever he pleased.

Primarch Victus nodded once to show he understood, but said nothing. Just as well, since he wasn't participating.

"Alright. Dismissed. Allers?" Shepard held up a hand to indicate she ought to hang back, even as she caught Garrus by the elbow. After speaking for a moment or two in a low tone, Garrus nodded, said something equally inaudible back, then patted Shepard's shoulder reassuringly, and set off. "Alright. You know what we're doing. Time to see what you can do."

Allers felt her expression break into a brilliant smile. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

Shepard's grin had a razorblade quality to it, a malicious sharpness the unwary target of ire could cut him-, her- or them-selves on. "EDI has recording functions and is already aware that she's to scrape together all the footage she can for you, by whatever means she can. If this is Cerberus—" Allers admired allowance for error, even now.' "—I _want_ this to get out. I want it all over the Extranet."

"Parents, grab your torch and pitchfork?"

"You've done good with what you've had so far, and you've held up your end of our deal." Shepard's tone suggested Allers had respected the lines within which she was to operate beyond all expectation. "You're being promoted to wartime propaganda. You say you made an elcor cry. I'll be interested to see what you can do with this."

Allers grinned, her guts wobbling in anticipation. "Challenge accepted, Captain. Cerberus' name will be mud by the time I'm through. Are you really going to get me live footage?"

Shepard nodded with grim satisfaction. "A picture's worth a thousand words, right?"

"Depends on the picture," Allers shrugged. "That grainy stuff the rag sheets like? Maybe five hundred."

"Why do you think I've got EDI handling it?"


	146. Unhelpful

" _This is an emergency announcement to all students and personnel on Grissom Station._ "

Katie Rodriguez looked up at the intercom, the chattering gaggle of students with her in the gym falling immediately silent as they, too, looked up. She swallowed hard, her guts coiling in on themselves as she stopped the treadmill she was on. The voice wasn't that of the station VI, JayGee, but of Kahlee Sanders, the director.

A silence followed, a silence so protracted that everyone began fidgeting.

" _Look, there's no nice and easy way to say it, but you all sit tight until I finish talking. Make sure you've heard all there is to hear so you don't f—oul something up by being too helpful._ " The new voice belonged to Jack. She, at least, sounded as if this was to be expected, grim and displeased, but not shaken up.

A few nervous chuckles punctuated her statement. It was pretty rich for Jack to give that sort of advice.

" _We've got reason to believe a bunch of bad f—ellas are about to drop right in our front yard._ _All biotics, amp up if you're not. Everyone else, if you can shoot a gun—hey, you said I could talk, this is me talking!_ " Jack snarled indignantly.

The few smiles in the room were gone now, at the edge in Jack's voice. It was the same edge that appeared when she was most adamant about someone learning something that could save their life later, the same tone she used when she seemed to be trying to arm them somehow against a future she didn't want for them. A future that lay in her past (though no one had ever asked anything to confirm this theory).

There was marksmanship practice for those students whose parents or guardians consented, especially since the Alliance hoped to recruit heavily out of the Ascension Project eventually. Still, even a security problem shouldn't have called for arming the students. The marksmanship program had been explicit about that: ' _just because we're teaching you to shoot a gun doesn't mean you get to help if something ever happens. You're still minors, not part of the security team._ '

Minors, the new argument went, in a galaxy being ravaged by—what had Ross called them?—mecha-kathooloo?

" _If you can shoot a gun without shooting yourself in the process, report to Murphy at the armory. All you geeks playing with those defensive whatevers, break out the prototypes for testing._ " A pause, this one deliberating. " _Buddy system would be good just now. So…yeah. Stay together._ "

Jack was notoriously _not_ what Rodriguez would call a team player, though she seemed aware that what worked for her wouldn't work for others. She encouraged independence and self-sufficiency as often as she encouraged teamwork. Most of the students had decided she _meant_ 'self-sufficient first, so you can contribute to the team' but had a little trouble expressing the sentiment.

" _Everyone not paying Murphy a visit, assemble in the nearest of the following locations: Hercules Hall, Perseus Hall, or Orion Hall._ "

Rodriguez took a slow breath. The gym (whose ironic name usually made everyone laugh or roll their eyes), the library (were there no brainy-hero-constellations, to keep up the naming convention's irony?), or the group entertainment area. The places people were likely to already be.

" _Listen, these people we're expecting? They're bad news. They will say_ anything _to get you to go with them. Don't fucking do it. Now, get a move on._ " The intercom switched off.

Rodriguez glanced at the other three students with her. She was part of the marksmanship program…but they weren't. Nor were they biotics. With Jack sounding so grim, with Kahlee letting Jack call the shots like that, she found herself unwilling to just _leave_ them on their own.

"You're amped, right?" L'Arisse asked nervously, twisting one of her braids around her fingers.

Rodriguez nodded. Before Jack's arrival, most of the biotics wouldn't have bothered with their amps outside of school hours. There was nothing in the rules to say they _shouldn't_ wear their amps outside school hours, although it had been mildly discouraged on the grounds of 'why do you need it?' But between Jack's 'always be ready to hit back' attitude and the outbreak of the war with the Reapers, most of the biotics on Grissom took their amps out at night and only at night.

And even then, Rodriguez suspected, only for maintenance purposes.

Rodriguez certainly felt safer knowing she could, as Jack kept saying, hit back. She'd seen pictures of some of the Reapers. She didn't want those things too close.

She shuddered, the graphic clip she and several of the others found on the Extranet of a husk attacking an unfortunate cameraman played before her mind's eye. It had ripped him to grisly pieces while he screamed before someone finally managed to shoot it enough times. She shuddered again. Some of the others had watched it more than once; she'd barely made it through the first viewing.

And yet…if it _was_ the Reapers, why not just say so? And, to Rodriguez's knowledge, Reapers didn't try to talk, so Jack's comment about this unknown assailant (or group thereof) saying anything to gain people's trust didn't make sense.

She didn't like this not knowing. It gave her an uncomfortable, squirming feeling she found difficult to bear.

She glanced at the others again, wondering if maybe she _should_ go pay Murphy a visit.

Or maybe not. The indecision rankled.

Rodriguez took a deep breath. She didn't _need_ to go see Murphy. She was a biotic, she had her amp. Orders were to find one of the aforementioned locations and _stay there_. Being too helpful was, as Jack had reminded them, being _too_ helpful. She didn't _need_ to do _anything_ —which was the crux of the problem. She wanted to be _doing_ something, because while occupied it was harder for attention to wander.

And right now, attention was prone to wandering in all kinds of unhelpful directions.


	147. Boarders

"Well, shit," Walter Murphy sighed, taking off his uniform's hat and running a hand through his hair. That was _a lot_ of ships. He was glad Jack had already left to start herding the kids together. He didn't think she'd do well standing on _this_ side of the surveillance footage when, in the front yard, were a lot of people she clearly wanted to kill.

"Cerberus," Kahlee breathed, her skin going chalky.

"What do they want?" He'd heard the name a couple of times before, everyone and their dog who spent any time on the Extranet had, but Walter found himself at a loss for _why_ a human supremacist group would…

…oh. The kids _were_ some of the best and brightest—those that weren't biotics, anyway—and all good candidates to contribute to humanity and all that stuff once they grew up.

 _Once_ they grew up, he repeated to himself. "Does Cerberus mess with kids?"

Kahlee's look at her console was venomous. "Oh, _yes_."

Well…shit. And so much for him getting down to the armory quickly. Well, the armory wasn't close to any of the airlocks, so maybe it was as good as any other place for the kids to withdraw to.

"You should get down to the armory, Walter," Kahlee said simply, her expression pinched as if she wished she enjoyed some of the power Jack possessed, the better to make Cerberus _very sorry_ for coming here. "If the kids are supposed to assemble there, they need someone to pick them up. And let them in."

He'd been of two minds about arming the kids. On the one hand, if the biotics could 'hit back' as Jack had noted, then the non-biotics should be able to, too. But still…

…seventeen was almost eighteen, Walter sighed mentally. He was being sentimental. Too sentimental, given the situation. He fell back on his own Alliance military background: it was better if those who were trained _could_ shoot back. Now that the situation was clear, now that it was no longer a mere _possibility_ , arming the kids trained to use a weapon seemed like a fabulous idea. Hedoubted Cerberus would respect a polite 'please move along and don't bother me.'

Still, Team Grissom was _heavily_ outnumbered, even if there was a slight advantage to be had in the fact that Cerberus had to successfully dock with the station to offload their troopers (or whatever).

With half his mind on the fact that they'd been betrayed—to all appearances—by one of their own, Walter began issuing instructions to the security team. He could only hope that Cerberus didn't have any hooks in _them_. But, all the same, he knew Cerberus didn't have hooks in _him_ , so that meant he and Jack were the only ones going to be rounding up the kids. "How're we getting the kids off the station?" he asked, frowning.

"I don't know yet," Kahlee answered tensely. "Best I can do at the moment is lock—damn."

"What?" Walter leaned over her shoulder.

Kahlee shook her head sharply, fingers flying across the console, clearly too tasked to explain what had happened.

Walter decided he could fill in, in broad strokes: Cerberus had fingers in the network. That meant they probably had control of at least one hangar to offload personnel into. He hoped Kahlee could counter whatever it was.

"You should get down to the armory," Kahlee finally repeated. "I isolated their program, but they've got three hangars."

Walter glanced at the 'front yard surveillance footage.' A small shuttle—a command cadre, no doubt—broke away from one of the ships and made a beeline for a hangar. "Which three?"

Kahlee pulled up a map and showed him.

"This'll be the first place they come."

"Probably." She clenched her teeth, eyes darting to the handgun lying on the table near her. "I'll lock myself in. Go, get the kids. Maybe by the time you and Jack have them, I'll have a better idea what can be done."

Walter nodded, then took her handgun and put his rifle in its place. "I'll get another when I get to the armory, but you might want something a little chunkier in the meantime."

Kahlee looked away from the interface, her pupils dilated as she gave him a halfhearted smile. "I'll be fine…" The half-smile died as the display began to flash. "Shoot first, Walter," she urged, returning to her rapid fumbling with Grissom's systems. "…and maybe lock me in?"

No longer 'I'll lock myself in.'

He wondered how compromised they really were, then decided not to ask. Not now, when Cerberus was presumably offloading troops into any or all of those three hangars they had control of.

As he crossed the room, he reviewed his men, mental map of the station bright in his mind. There were choke points that could be held to some effect. He had to believe that.

In the corridor, he emptied three rounds into the room's access panel. Unless Kahlee let them in, no one was getting that door open without substantial force.

"—secure the command hub." The arch, mildly irritated tones were faint, but they gave Walter a moment's notice, enough time to stop moving and raise his suddenly insufficient pistol.

At the head of the hall, a woman with a mop of raggedly bobbed dark hair and hawkish features turned into the corridor. She had the paleness of someone who spent a lot of time in space, and a fit build. Hers was a face he recognized, but her presence made no sense: the so-called Butcher of Torfan.

"I'll head to communications, and see that idiot—" Eva Rogers broke off mid-word as her eyes fell on Walter.

A bright blue corona of energy stopped his bullets as several armored figures, dwarfing the woman by comparison, poured in around her. She watched, unconcerned, utterly convinced of the invulnerability of her biotic shield.

In the literal blink of an eye, bullets began tearing through him.


	148. Detached

Octavia Ryce made a face as she—with David and Isaac in tow—arrived at the armory to find they had actually beaten Security Chief Murphy there. The room was locked, too. Well, maybe that was to be expected. If something had actually _happened_ , as opposed to bracing for something to happen, someone would have said something.

Octavia prided herself on being exceptionally logical, a trait often mistaken by others for coldness, callousness, or simple disinterest. The mistake occurred less often at Grissom than at other schools she'd attended.

She glanced at Isaac, who stood beside David, their elbows almost touching. Isaac was shy. David was autistic. Oddly enough, they got along famously. Isaac could wear a hole in his tongue talking if he was talking to David; David seemed to like Isaac's chatter, after his own fashion. At least, she amended, he never seemed to grow anxious or complain about things 'being loud.'

Maybe she and Isaac were just 'quieter' than most people…not necessarily verbally, but just…in whatever strange way David saw and understood the world. Math was quiet, and David was definitely a mathematically-minded person.

"So?" Isaac asked nervously.

"So, we wait," she answered.

Isaac put down their generator prototype with a sigh, wiping his brow on his sleeve, which he immediately began fiddling with.

David sat down beside the generator, sitting as if with someone to whom he wanted to converse. "It's a good generator," he observed to the machine in question. As soon as he was settled, he began to rock gently back and forth, the litany of square roots strangely in time to his idle motion.

Sometimes Octavia wondered if David saw the world like Bach or Mozart, only instead of being able to translate into a medium others understood—like music—he was trapped in a world of sound and color only he could perceive, because no one else understood his medium.

"What do you think it is?" she finally asked Isaac, when the quietude of waiting got to be too heavy against her eardrums.

Isaac, who had unthinkingly begun rocking back and forth on his heels in time with David's motion, shook himself. "I don't know?" His anxious brown eyes cast around the brightly lit corridor. "If it was Reapers, they'd say Reapers, wouldn't they?"

Octavia shrugged. Reapers were…distasteful. In her mind, she watched the reactions of some of the other students when Sebastian Prangley turned up the footage of a husk mutilating some slow-moving cameraman. Katie Rodriguez had looked like she wanted to faint, her skin blanching. Heather Mason said nothing, but her biotics flared as she covered her mouth with her hands. Paul Bartlett's eyes grew teary, but the tears didn't fall, nor did his biotics flare, even if his breath grew uneven.

What had she felt? It had been repulsive, of course, but at the same time she'd been aware of that awful way _logic_ , the foundation of her world, separated her from others.

' _What's wrong with you, Octavia? Don't you care?_ ' The question had plagued her most of her life. She cared…but she couldn't find it in her to get overly upset over something she couldn't affect.

She embraced the easy comfort of logic: there was nothing to concern herself with until there was. And, right now, she was responsible for Isaac and David. Or felt that way. Isaac was nice, but didn't handle stress well. And David was…well, _David_.

Isaac settled on the floor beside David, oriented as if he meant to engage the generator in conversation. He'd also interrupted David's square roots to play the Fibonacci game. It was a counting game, but it was also one of the times David was almost chatty. She'd listened to him and Isaac play the game for hours, low voices a soothing background noise while she focused.

It was one reason she thought David would be more approachable if other people could 'speak math.' Because, of course, to him it was everyone else who didn't make sense.

Suddenly, the power grid fluxed, emergency power switched on, then shut off and returned to primary.

" _To all Grissom students and personnel,_ " Dir. Sanders' voice came across the intercom. " _Cerberus cruisers have dropped in-system. We're officially under attack._ " Octavia listened as Dir. Sanders spoke, but her attention was on David. At the word _Cerberus_ , he went stock still, even his breathing seemed to stop. Then he seemed to reboot. In his stillness, he whispered, "it all seemed so harmless" then began rocking with renewed vigor. He reached out a finger, jabbed the generator's activation button. He said nothing to her or Isaac, but went back to repeating his square roots with a fervor and determination that put her in mind of someone uttering desperate prayers.

Maybe his mathematical jumble would reach someone, somewhere. But it was David's marked distress, as he gave the impression of trying to curl up on himself even as part of him wanted to explode, that bothered her most.

"David?" Isaac asked gently.

David shook his head sharply, like a horse trying to scare off a fly.

Isaac looked up at her.

Octavia took a knee before David. "David?"

"Quiet please! Make it stop!" The words were high-pitched, sharp.

Octavia bit her lip. She wasn't overly empathic, but she felt certain she was looking at _fear_. No, something greater than fear. _Terror_. "It's going to be okay. It's a good generator," she said blankly.

David said nothing to her, merely continued his square roots, but his hand suddenly shot out, grabbing Isaac's sleeve, fingers twisting into the fabric with a grip that, had he grabbed Isaac's arm, would have left bruises.

Isaac didn't try to offer David physical reassurance, David notoriously didn't like being touched. He simply frowned at the shield's network of blue polygons. A few moments later, as if for his own comfort, he joined David in counting of square roots. Even if he didn't know the longer numbers, he could follow the pattern in the solutions.


	149. Cornered

Jack couldn't remember the last time she felt so _trapped_. It wasn't like being forced into a position not of her choosing. It wasn't like being caught between a rock and a hard place. It wasn't even the action-or-consequences squeeze of her childhood.

This was being well and truly _trapped_ , forced into something approaching harmlessness in the grand scheme of things. All her anger, the rage, the howling, screaming tempest in her head did nothing more than leave her with a headache and shaking hands.

Because she _could not_ give in to her first instinct, leave the kids somewhere safe, and proceed to tear through the station the way she'd torn through other places.

Oh, she _wanted_ to, no doubt about it. She wanted to tear through the corridors, shred every Cerberus drone that appeared before her eyes into a heap of bloody meat ribbon. But she _knew_ they were waiting for her to do just that, for her to turn her back on her charges for one moment. Because the _one moment_ she left the kids unattended, Cerberus would find a way to swing in and…

It was too horrible for Jack to want to contemplate. So she satisfied herself with killing those troopers that _did_ come obligingly enough into range. But she didn't shred them in front of the kids. It would be so easy to throw the ragged pasta in its bloody tomato sauce, all oozing out of its black and white can out into the hall, or throw it to stick on the walls and ceiling in a grotesque message: _leave_ _my_ _kids_ _alone_!

She was so angry it was hard to think.

She didn't dare leave them unattended, couldn't go from here and round up those who hadn't had the fortune to be close enough for her to scoop out of harm's way when the ships dropped in-system.

She hoped Kahlee had some ideas, her and that big brain.

Jack glanced at the kids, all of whom looked a bit pale, all of whom looked shaky, none of whom really seemed to appreciate how awful the situation was. _We just have to bunker down until the Alliance shows up_. She'd told them that, but not because _she_ believed it. She'd told them because it was something _they_ believed: that the good guys really did ride in sometimes and make everything okay.

Damn that asshole. Simpson, wasn't that his name? Him and his phony distress signal. It had only been bad luck (for him) that she caught the interference preceding the comm blackout. It had been rotten lock (for him) that Kaylee listened when she, Jack, began making a fuss. She was still a little surprised about that, being listened to, _heeded_ , like that.

And if Jack knew anything about those assholes, it was that they wanted the kids alive. Alive, so they could be plunged into a fate worse than death.

At one point, Jack might have considered the option of killing the kids now, sparing them the horrors in store—because the good guy _never_ just showed up to set things right, not in her experience anyway. But it sounded like something that asshole d'Angelo might do, and she wasn't that way. Not twisted like that.

But Cerberus seemed wary of her, trying to lure her away from the cluster of kids rather than trying to corner her. Unusually smart: cornered was where she did her best work. But the constant desire to _go forth, do something_ chafed at her. Stay put, be patient had never been her mantra…but it was today.

Jack's heart nearly stopped as the intercomm system clicked softly, the way it always did when turned on. She'd always appreciated the discreet warning that a disembodied voice—usually Kahlee's—was about to say something. She hated no-warning comm systems; they always left her wondering, for a few seconds, whether or not she was hearing voices.

"Students of Grissom Academy. Please, do not panic."

Jack wanted to scream, felt it rising in her throat even as the defiant lump there held it back. She knew that voice. She hadn't heard it for more than half a year, but even now it caused a clammy-cold sensation to settle on her skin.

Eva K. Rogers.

Jack's escape from the _Victoria_ played across her mind's eye at high speed. Rogers was a first-class piece of work, and while Jack felt sure she could crush Rogers into goo…well. No one cheated like Rogers could cheat. Jack never prepared for fair fights—who fought fair?—always assumed the other person would cheat (or did so herself—whatever worked).

Part of her, and it made Jack angrier, was a little afraid of Rogers. She couldn't articulate why.

Jack shook herself. She was stronger, she could easily kill Rogers…but Rogers introduced a new dimension of _doubt_ , and _doubt_ was something Jack found it difficult to contend with. Jack took a step towards the nearest door, mind half made up to storm the comms office, then stopped.

Cerberus was waiting for her to leave the kids to their own devices. And these kids were sheltered. They believed people told the truth. They'd be easy to intimidate, dupe, and then…

Jack clenched her fists, flaring apprehensively. She hated waiting. It didn't seem the thing, somehow, to say 'stay behind me' while she surged forward. What if she got too far ahead and Cerberus got between her and the kids in sufficient numbers to separate them? Or worse, what if there was an ambush in the corridors, meaning all her heavy-hitting attacks might just as likely hit one of the kids?

She had to move. Four kids in the gym. More in Orion Hall. "Rodriguez!"

"Yeah?"

Jack bit the inside of her lip. "Cover us. Make sure no one gets behind us."

Rodriguez nodded enthusiastically. Once they were in the hall, she filled the space with a flat barrier, instead of trying to shield the group. No one was getting past that.


	150. Infusion

" _Director Sanders? This is Capt. Shepard of the SSV Normandy. We intercepted your distress call._ "

For a moment, Kahlee Sanders regarded the console dumbly. It seemed too good to be true…and yet, it was on the short-range frequency she'd been able to establish and upon which she'd looped her SOS message.

Kahlee tried to ignore the noise on the other side of the door, just as she tried to squish the sudden leap in her guts. Glancing at the chrono on her console, it seemed as if Shepard's ship caught the phony distress call shortly after it had been made.

" _Director Sanders? Are you there?_ "

For a moment, Kahlee wondered if it was all a trick, some elaborate plot…but judging from what information she had, Cerberus didn't _need_ elaborate plots. "Cerberus forces are attacking this facility," Kahlee answered. "They're after my students!"

" _Yeah, they've got our direct approaches blocked,_ " Shepard agreed.

"I know, they've taken control of our docking bay." They'd had to manually secure that one. "And most of the hangars."

" _Alternatives?_ "

Kahlee closed her eyes. "There's…an auxiliary cargo port I could probably—I could definitely—open for you," she corrected herself as she sifted through the information and possibilities still open to her.

" _Alright. We'll shuttle in and get your students out of there. Where are you?_ "

"Central command hub. I'm locked in, but Cerberus is definitely trying to fix that."

" _Are you armed?_ "

"Yes."

" _Good. Hang in there. We'll be over shortly._ " The line went dead.

Kahlee grimaced at the console, wondering how 'shortly' was 'shortly.'

She found herself chewing on her lip as she glanced at the console's chrono. _Should_ she be worried about this so on the spot appearance of help?

Kahlee shook herself, concentrated again on maintaining those fingers in the system—so to speak—she still had. Whatever firepower Cerberus had, they hadn't brought any particularly brilliant hackers or any particularly specialized VIs. This looked, to her, like a smash and grab type mission. No need for anything more specialized than a slim Jim to open the place up, a comm blackout to keep everyone quiet, and enough firepower to suppress resistance.

It seemed like hours before gunfire and shouts erupted in the corridor. Then silence fell, until a gentle tap-tap on the door. "Director Sanders? You in there?"

Kahlee exhaled long as slow, glad no one could hear it…but she picked up the rifle from the worktop, just in case. It didn't pay to be too trusting…even if it was her inclination to trust in this case.

"Yeah, let me get the door for you."

The doors opened on a blank expanse of corridor, the floor littered with bodies. A moment later, a woman in armor edged into view, clearly as careful with the possibility that Kahlee wasn't who she said she was as Kahlee felt about opportune rescuers.

But she recognized Shepard's appearance, even if she'd never met the woman. And, a moment later, Shepard's turian right-hand man sidled into view.

"Captain," Kahlee sighed, lowering the rifle. "David always said you were the best."

For a moment Shepard looked puzzled. "…Archer?"

"Anderson," Kahlee almost chuckled.

Shepard's expression relaxed. "Thanks. How many of your students are left?"

Others filed into view, a green thing unlike anything Kahlee had ever seen, an asari, another human soldier, and a mech which moved to stand near Shepard's other shoulder. They looked like a small army.

"Fewer than twenty. Most students were sent home when word of the invasion spread. Some volunteered to stay—some prototyping tech for the Alliance, others are biotics…they've been training for military operations." She was babbling.

"Handy."

"Yeah…" Kahlee glanced sidelong at Shepard, between whose brows a worry crease had appeared. "You haven't… heard from David, have you?" It was as she asked the question that something crystallized for Kahlee: that when she said 'David' the first time, Shepard hadn't thought of David Anderson at all, but David _Archer_. Unease crept up Kahlee's spine; she knew, as few did, that David Archer had been rescued from some kind of Cerberus experimentation facility. The rescue had been affected by the Alliance…but Shepard's name had never been connected with the facility or the rescue.

And yet she knew, very specifically, about the lad.

"He's fighting the good fight, back on Earth," Shepard answered promptly. "Checks in when he can, but…if you're asking whether he's okay, he was when I last spoke to him, all things considered."

"Good. He's a good man." Momentary relief followed by renewed anxiety left Kahlee nauseous. That seemed to be the rule of thumb for present days: replace one anxiety with another. Well, at least he was alive.

"Where are your students now?" Shepard asked.

"In Orion, Perseus, or Hercules Halls, or near the armory. The ones with marksmanship training were supposed to meet our security chief, Murphy, there."

"EDI?" Shepard turned to the mech.

"Positive identity match: Murphy, Walter. I am sorry, Director," the mech announced. "He is dead."

"At least one of our instructors was making rounds, trying to round up the kids, move them somewhere safe. Jack."

" _Hello? Hello! It's Froeberg! Can anyone hear me?!_ " The burst of chatter made Kahlee flinch before she pounced on it. Internal comm system, it was clearly a patched-in job.

"This is Kahlee. Are you alright?"

" _We're trapped in Orion Hall! Jack's with us, she brought the Hercules bunch, but I think they've got us boxed in, now!_ " The lad's voice sharpened as a tangle of noises appeared in the background.

"EDI, stay here with Sanders," Shepard declared to the mech who nodded once. "Back her up and try to find all these kids. See if you can isolate any stragglers so we can pick them up. Do you want a second?"

The mech looked from Kahlee to the rest of the crew, then shook its head. "I think it would be best if you took everyone with you, Shepard. Especially if you will be escorting civilians at any point."


	151. Sad State

Eva Rogers sat in the Cerberus-appointed command center of Grissom Academy, frowning. She frowned at the station in general, but more than that, she frowned at her own memories. There was no Grissom Station, no Ascension Program, when she was young. There was just Conatix 2.0 (as the students there called it).

Conatix had one more shot at training biotics after the infamous Gagarin Station Scandal—most people didn't know about the genuine second attempt. Maybe, she thought grimly, because the second attempt was where they _should_ had started: the second attempt was comprised of children few people would miss. Most of the children of her group, those with families, were in no hurry to return to those families. Some had zealots or closed-minded phobics who hoped that sending their children to Jump Zero would somehow 'cure' or 'purge' them. Some had parents who, if the whispers were true, accepted compensation in exchange for sending their children into Conatix's care. Some were like her, with no one to miss them and seeing an opportunity for _power_.

She'd run with the Tenth Street Reds, been an invisible support for the power structure. She'd honed what she knew about manipulation there, but the opportunity to turn her feeble biotic fields into something…more…ah, _that_ had been something. And she'd known someone, a former Red himself gone Alliance, who had been more than happy to help her 'get out of that life.'

He'd so desperately wanted to be a hero, and had a soft spot for his 'unprivileged fellows.'

He'd also had a soft spot for her, personally. Not the best she'd ever had, but it had been nice to let him think he loved her. She'd recognized the danger there: what if she started to believe that she loved him back? That would never do; 'love' gave someone else power over you, and she refused to let that happen.

So he, she had to dig for his name, had been the only man she'd ever permitted to think there was something 'real.' Maybe that was a mistake in itself, setting him aside like that. But it was over, it was done, and she much preferred 'amiability' over 'fondness.'

'Fondness' tended to leave baggage, like those pesky little leftovers that sometimes remained after one flushed one's shit down the toilet, unpleasant reminders of necessary functions.

Jump Zero hadn't been like Grissom Station. Grissom was comfortable, almost plush compared to the cots and the utilitarian cafeteria tables. The food here was better, too.

She frowned again. They were training these kids to be soft. They couldn't function without their three carefully selected, carefully prepared meals a day, their soft bunks in their quiet little rooms of two students each. They wouldn't be able to handle true gang showers (even segregated ones) where the water went cold halfway through, and the motto for mopping up was the same one used in the military when water disciplines were in effect: _'pits, pubes, and peds.'_

The teachers here were soft, not like the hard-bitten asari, who demanded perfection, who drove you into the ground with a determination that bordered on sadism. No one would put her into the same category as her predecessor, but she'd been a sadistic witch in her own way.

Rogers smiled: she and the asari had hated one another. The asari made ridiculous demands, Rogers fulfilled the letter of the demand, not the spirit, engaging in daily, hourly even, grueling tug-of-war matches. That might have accounted for why she, of all the students of that batch, turned out so successful: the asari wanted her to fight, to dig in her heels to try to resist. It toughened endurance, gave her, Rogers, a better sense of the resources at her disposal, forced her to _think_ and not just throw power at an obstacle.

She'd been asked, several times, why she left herself open to punishment. Her peers found it off-putting to hear her talk about having power, of being able to use it effectively…to be in a position where very few people would have power over _her_.

Their rejection of her hadn't hurt. In fact, she'd taken care to ensure a certain buffer between herself and the others. She had come with the intention of training herself, of bettering herself, of sapping every ounce of knowledge she could from whatever instructors were thrown at her…and that was what she did. She could work in a unit because she could seize and hold the unit until the exercise was over. She excelled as a single entity.

She blinked, the cold expanses of Gagarin Station quickly replaced with the bright, pleasantly decorated interior of Grissom Station.

So soft.

That would change.

She'd seen the Phantom initiative, admired the 'floor model' she'd seen. She'd been impressed—not impressed enough to volunteer, however. That hadn't been necessary. Even if it had been, she wouldn't have gone quietly. Her value was greater with her free will intact. As far as the Phantom initiative…well, the Reapers had to be stopped. The next generation could retain their ability to disobey; initiatives of forced compliance always failed, sooner or later.

That was where the Illusive Man missed a day in school: the day they covered Logic, Reason, and History of Both.

She turned her thoughts back to the Phantom project. Now _there_ was an initiative that, if tweaked, could truly bring about strong biotics. She hoped she wasn't alive to see them: she liked the status quo where it was.

"You are clear for live broadcast," one of her flunkies announced, bringing her a microphone and earpiece.

She put them on, putting the Phantom project aside, just as she put aside so many other things over the source of her life. Yes, the whole programmed obedience thing couldn't last, and she _did_ like the status quo where it was.

…but she was sure Tonya was much happier as a Phantom prototype than she had been as a person. Especially after losing her twin.


	152. Hold the Fort

Sebastian Prangley wasn't the only one who gave an exhausted whoop when Jack exploded into the room, four of the others (uninjured, he was relieved to notice) behind her. At Jack's gesture, they immediately broke off to join their peers.

Firstly, it meant he was no longer in charge. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten to _be_ in charge, but from the moment it was announced that Grissom Station was being boarded by hostiles, he felt like he'd been making decisions and calling shots—the first of which had been for everyone to get up into the audio/visual office, since it was defensible, offering both cover and high ground.

From there, he'd put Froeberg on trying to establish contact with a known friendly—or, at least, make sure they weren't talking to _un_ friendlies—then organized the others, some on defense, some ready to bombard the enemy. Just turtling up until rescue came wasn't likely to be a viable option; right now, the only rescue possible was the one the effected themselves. That meant being ready to go on offense. Fortunately, all the biotics here were trained for offense…it was just that some people were shyer than others about hitting things. Those were the ones he'd put on defense, their barriers sealing the two stairwells up to Orion Hall's audio/visual office.

Until now, the Cerberus troops had just filed in, seemingly uncertain how to breech the barriers—and apparently aware that if they took out the window, they'd shred everyone inside with shrapnel. It had been tense, listening to that woman's voice on the intercom while watching those Cerberus buzzards gargoyling at their little bastion of resistance.

But it was okay now, because Jack was here! He'd never felt so relieved to see someone. She'd have a better idea about what to do and how to do it.

Prangley lost his train of thought as he watched Jack sail into the Cerberus troopers. She didn't just sail into them, she _tore_ into them in a display of vicious biotics that left his feet and hands cold. She _ripped_ them apart with a ferocity he hadn't expected form anyone. Limbs twisted in strange directions, bodies smashed off any available surface, and even though she had backup from Rodriguez—the only biotic in her group—Jack didn't look like she needed or wanted _anyone's_ help. Rather, she continued flinging opponents like Frisbees, or slamming them with shockwaves, and it didn't seem to matter whether her attacks maimed or killed as long as they _impacted_.

Jack wasn't usually quite so haphazard with her damages. Usually, she confined herself to hitting something 'too hard.' This, though…this was hitting as many people as possible and never mind how many times she had to hit them. There was something frenzied about it, as if these people had done her some personal wrong and she could only now lash out at them.

Prangley's guts squirmed, cold apprehension pooling there. Jack didn't talk much about her past, usually citing—with a mirthless grin—that it wasn't for their tender ears. Now, he began to wonder if she meant something other than 'it's a gritty tale, I'll tell you when you're older.'

Because Jack suddenly reminded him of a high-efficiency blender.

And then she was done, sweating and panting, her whole thin body heaving with her breaths. All around her lay corpses and twisted armor, blood oozing onto the pale floors, or sliding down the wall where bloody bodies had impacted and smeared.

She cracked her neck, rolled her shoulders, and turned.

For a moment, Prangley didn't want her anywhere near him or his friends. There was something wild in her expression, something feral, energized, ready for more. For a moment, he saw nothing more or less than an attack varren given its favorite command: _kill_.

"Yo! Prangley!"

Prangley blinked at the snap in Jack's tone, which was muffled by distance and the thick pane of the overlook's window. "Uh…huh?"

Then it was gone. Jack still looked irradiated, but no more so than anyone else might after a good bout of sweaty exercise. "Huh?" she retorted, giving him a scathing look. "I asked, are you okay?" Her tone suggested he'd missed this question the first time.

It was so outstandingly _normal_ that Prangley gave a slightly hysterical laugh. "Uh…yeah. Yeah, we're okay. Uh, how-how are you?"

A couple of the girls tittered at this. Normally, Prangley would have blushed, or glared at them, but the sheer normalcy of 'Prangley's at it again' coupled with Jack's resigned look of 'Prangley's being Prangley' was too good to pass up.

He didn't mind 'being Prangley' in a situation like this.

Jack, on the verge of retorting, suddenly went tense, her face falling as she slowly turned to look at one of the entryways. Apparently, she could hear something they, being further away and behind a window, couldn't.

Inside the audio/visual office, everything went quiet, humor gone, the air growing still and tense, charged with biotic potential as several of them began to flare nervously.

"Go! Get out of here!" Jack barked, her biotics flaring again as she squared off before the door, through which more troopers and a black-haired woman poured.

The woman stood out because of all the Cerberus forces, she had a face—no helmet to hide it.

It struck Prangley as ominous. He would have followed Jack's command, except there was nowhere _to_ run, except down the stairs and into the about-to-be-a-battlefield. Suddenly, the overlook seemed a lot less wise a choice of places to bunker down.

"My goodness, my dear Jack: have you finally learned to care about someone other than yourself? I must say that's very…disappointing. Useful, but disappointing." The voice belonged to the woman spouting propaganda over the intercom earlier.

Jack backed up cautious two steps, posture ready to unload on the new array of enemies…but she didn't do it.

Somehow, Prangley thought as ice water seemed to fill his veins, that seemed like a _bad_ sign.


	153. Surprise

" _The Alliance has filled your heads with propaganda: the worst possible kind, the propaganda that relies on omission."_

"Shit!" Shepard stopped in her tracks, got down on one knee and brought up her omnitool display. This was worse than anything she had expected to find here, short of Reapers and their fleshbag minions.

" _Cerberus_ _can_ _and_ _will_ _protect you."_

" _Shepard? What is the matter?_ " EDI asked over the team channel.

" _Cerberus_ _can_ _and_ _will_ _keep you safe."_

"I know that voice," Shepard growled. "Eva Rogers, she's a ridiculously lousy piece of work." It figured that Rogers would be here. Since she obviously couldn't lure the kids to Cerberus, she'd applied a blunt force methodology. Or maybe she hadn't even tried tact.

" _They can give you purpose. They can ensure your survival. Let them help you."_

Shepard had heard Rogers had finally gone off the reserve—not officially heard, but from something Anderson let slip one day—but to find her here, an N7 (former or not), kidnapping children _for_ _Cerberus_?

" _Do you really think that Cerberus would harm humanity's greatest asset? If you fight, they must defend themselves. They, too, have families they wish to see again._ "

Shepard did not relish having to fight Eva Rogers head-on. Rogers was a powerful biotic, cunning and ruthless. It would serious tactics, to stop Rogers…but here was something she, Shepard, had always hoped for, though in the way one hopes for gruesome demises for someone considered an enemy. Pure and simple, Rogers had turned traitor and finally picked a side that looked likely to win.

Where she got that idea, Shepard wasn't sure.

"And therein lies the problem…that psychotic _bitch_ …" It was her responsibility to remove the threat; the fact that Rogers was a fellow N7 was more embarrassing than ever. She couldn't avoid it, but she didn't like the idea of her crew getting involved. It seemed to her one of those fights that really did have to be handled personally…

And while Rogers was no match for an asari, she was smart enough to employ tactics that could, feasibly, keep Shepard's cohorts at bay. With Rogers, it was never a question of how much power was at her disposal: it was how one used the power one _had_ to greatest effect.

Shepard was well aware that Rogers would find herself hard-pressed if she were to go head-to-head with Alenko, but Alenko wasn't here. Maybe that was a good thing; Rogers had always given the impression she was out to bag herself a biotic, and Shepard did _not_ mean it in the context of recruiting. Her skin crawled at the very thought.

" _Really? Is that so?_ "Rogers' voice demanded of someone outside the transmission's range, a sense of predatory pleasure in her tone. " _In that case…ahem. You'll excuse me, students, for taking a brief leave of absence from the airwaves. It seems I have…a friend…on this station, and when one meets up with old friends, one must pay her respects."_

The comm system suddenly fluxed.

Shepard frowned: 'friend' her ass. Rogers didn't have 'friends,' just 'associates' she could feed to the sharks as needed.

" _And someone find out who_ _else_ _is making trouble, here. I detest surprises._ "

"Kahlee—any idea who's got Rogers' so pissed off?" Shepard got up, satisfied with the static now running through the comm system.

" _I'm not sure…it might be Jack…I know they travelled together, some, before Jack came here_."

"Where am I most likely to find…Jack?" Something niggled at Shepard's mind, like a minnow nibbling at bait. Something to do with that name and biotics…but she couldn't, for the life of her, remember what that missing fact was. Now wasn't the time to go fishing for it, either.

" _With the students in Orion Hall—depending on how much resistance you have…_ "

" _This is Grissom HQ to all soldiers: priority security breech. Security feeds indicate that Captain Shepard is now on station. Repeat: Shepard has infiltrated the station. Check your omnitools for individual mission priority_."

"They're splitting their forces," Liara noted, biting the inside of her lip. "Not the worst scenario, but not the best, either…"

"So we take out about half their army—Cerberus never could shoot for shit…" Shepard grumbled. At least they weren't trained like Ns; that could have made life difficult. Right now, Cerberus troopers were just…complications.

But Rogers was another story entirely, another book, another reader's collection!

Rogers? Here? Once she stifled surprise and disgust, the N7's presence made sense. What better way to gain the kids' tentative trust than to present them with a powerful, apparently sophisticated biotic? They were probably working the good cop bad cop scenario, waiting for the constant barrage—now mercifully muffled—of demoralizing, canned statements to do their work. Beat down resistance.

It was worse than Jedore's loudspeaker-broadcast recordings on Korlus—less annoying, but more dangerous.

"We need to move but I think I can…Liara, barriers, Vega, let me know if I'm about to walk into something." Doubtless EDI could have done the same task more quickly, but Shepard found herself disinclined to try to express her ideas. Tech-speech sometimes got…garbled…even between techs.

She began to walk, omnitool ablaze, her expression fixed with dispassionate determination, as though she could suddenly see the world as simple shapes and figured, of code defined and ordered by old training.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, music began to blare, loud enough to reverberate in her skull.

Rogers was an L2: the noise wouldn't do her any favors. Besides, Shepard liked this song. Sanders might have trouble with regaining communications—Shepard herself would have to stop and use a terminal or other physical connection to get control—but she could introduce disruptions remotely. All it took was a Cerberus radio unit and an omnitool, use their radio wave as a targeting procedure and ping her own piggy-backing signal into the command center.

What good was being an N7 infiltrator if one couldn't effectively use a radio?

"Shepard! What is _that_?!" Liara demanded.


	154. Field Day

EDI knew when she was being scrutinized. The scrutiny didn't (shorthand: bother) her particularly. She stood out in a crowd…or so the idiom ran. She'd stood in the middle of a literal crowd and very few people gave her a second glance. Her conclusion was that the band identifying her as a medical mech kept people from really thinking about any individualities inherent in her mobile platform's design.

"I think they tampered with JayGee, the station's VI," Sanders announced, tucking a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear.

"Likely," EDI agreed.

"So…how does Shepard know David Archer?" Sanders asked.

"She and Officer Vakarian rescued him. Is he well?"

"Very."

It hadn't occurred to EDI, as she studied Sanders, that she would have to create expression profiles for everyone she met. She had the Normandy's crew, past and present, knew their moods, their body language and verbal tics, but she found interacting with Sanders—an ally—strange. Of course, certain things were predictable, humans did maintain a shared repository of similar responses, but the fact was she didn't _know_ Sanders at all and now had to interact with her on the fly.

It was a (personal assessment: strange) experience. She did not feel (equivalent: shy) as Sanders kept sneaking looks at her. But she did feel something. She could almost hear the question Sanders wasn't asking: _what are you_?

"I have found the tampering. Shall I shut JayGee off?"

A random collection of data fired, memory—strangely hazy, because she had…changed forms…since them—fired. That moment of realizing, not long after realizing she was alive, that she was going to die. She—or that self-iteration—had screamed for help the only way it could.

That iteration's last memory—or was it something she had filled in?—was of the way Shepard's eyes widened upon recognizing that the 'rogue VI' she'd been sent to stop had just _called for help_.

Not that EDI bore any grudges. She understood, logically, the situation. She simply had no desire to discuss it with Shepard or anyone else. She hadn't really been EDI, then, and the crew's interactions with _her_ , as EDI, left no room for grudges.

Sanders was looking again. Had EDI needed to breathe, or had the capacity, she might have sighed. "You may ask. I will not be offended." That ought to answer Sanders' question. Mechs and VIs didn't possess the capacity to be offended. In her case, she simply had thick skin. She knew this because she found the Reapers to be utterly offensive. That they fell into the same classification—that of artificial intelligence—offended her.

Jeff had laughed at this, assuring her that this was a good thing to be offended over.

"…you're _not_ a-a standard mech, are you?"

"I am the Normandy's Enhanced Defense Intelligence," EDI answered. "A fully self-actualized entity of the artificial persuasion." She liked that phrase; it emphasized that she was a _sapient entity_ , rather than an artificial construct.

"Oh." Nothing more, or less.

It was (shorthand: strange) interacting with people outside the Normandy's crew. The crew knew her, knew she was not like other artificial intelligences out there. Everyone else thought 'geth (Heretics)' and 'Reapers.' But the crew knew she wasn't that way.

(Personal assessment: oddly) enough, she didn't feel the need to try to put Sanders at ease with a joke. Maybe that was just the seriousness of the situation…but somehow, even as the thought flashed across her mind, she didn't think so.

(Personal assessment: better to save the humor for those who could appreciate the attempts.)

EDI wished she applied positive and negative values to music. Music, so much of _art_ , was lost on her. So much of it was subjectively measured, and she had absolutely no groundwork or foundation for building her own criteria to do so for herself.

Cruel and Unusual continued blasting through the station's comm system, obliterating Cerberus' propaganda and apparently defying their attempts to wrest the so-called 'airwaves' back. Well, if Cerberus _did_ manage to interfere with Shepard's foray into the world of disc jockeying, she could put that right. In fact, it was safe to say that in a few minutes, Cerberus was going to find themselves in a potential not-so-fun-house. JayGee—who sometimes responded to Gilligan, for reasons unknown—was far too helpful. "Why does JayGee also answer to Gilligan?"

Sanders gave a wry laugh. "I think Jack had one of the kids tweak him. I keep telling myself I'm going to find the tweak, but I never get around to it."

Jack again. EDI discreetly accessed the station's personnel database, found Jack's file.

Not just 'Jack, Instructor,' but also 'Jack, Subject Zero,' whom Shepard had refused to recruit. It was safe to say that EDI never forgot a face. Was it something Shepard needed to know?

No, not unless it came up, or seemed likely to.

"I have isolated the locations of fifteen students. The majority are in Orion Hall," EDI announced. "I am also in the process of isolating all of Cerberus' forces." A smile touched EDI's mouths as she brought down emergency procedures around those nearest the hangars.

Then she opened the hangars, dropping a few of the emergency barriers. No less than fourteen Cerberus ground pounders suddenly found themselves whisked into hard vacuum. No sense in not reducing the number of enemies Shepard and her team were likely to face, especially, she thought as she watched several YMIR-class mechs clunking down the halls, when Cerberus seemed to be adapting (personal assessment: poorly) to the concept of _resistance_.

A sense of (shorthand: smugness) permeated the forefront of EDI's mind as she continued toying with the barriers. It might be possible to—

"What are you doing?" Sanders asked, not accusingly but as if the stretch of silence between them began to unnerve her.

"I have seized control of the station's emergency life support measures. I can sequester some forces. I have already spaced others."

Sanders' eyebrows arched. "Like rats in a trap. I'm…impressed."


	155. Necessity

Jack gritted her teeth as Eva Rogers came striding into the room, ahead of a heavy mech and a small unit of Cerberus goons. Rogers pissed her off…but Rogers also scared her, which pissed her off even more. Jack, _knew_ that she had the ability to squash Rogers like a big…but like a bug Rogers had a gift for not being in positions where she could be squashed.

And, more than that, Rogers always had a plan.

And now she, Jack, was caught between Rogers and her Cerberus cronies and the kids— _her_ kids. "Go! Get out of here!" Jack barked, her biotics flaring.

Rogers watched the kids fall back, her eyebrows arched, seemingly unconcerned by their flight: why should she be? This was a space station overrun with Cerberus. Where could they go? "My goodness, my dear Jack: have you finally learned to care about someone other than yourself? I must say that's very…disappointing. Useful, but disappointing."

"Go to hell." Jack realized two things: firstly that Rogers had not lit up. There was no cigarette issuing thin smoke either between the biotic's lips or in one hand. When Rogers had the upper hand and _knew_ it she always lit up. It was an image thing. So clearly the biotic had _doubts_. Even with her goons and her mech she had _doubts._

 _That_ was reassuring, backed the doubt-fueled unease Jack herself wrestled with to a more manageable level.

The second thing Jack noticed was Cerberus' goons edging towards the stairwell leading to the overlook where the kids had bunkered down. The flares of many barriers plastered together like papier-mâché indicated the defensive posture the kids had taken.

Rogers sighed. "You know, I always found your language—most of your sentiments, really—either appallingly crude or revoltingly juvenile. To have to coddle you all the time, it was like being someone's nanny. And your tantrums…" Roger's reached into her pocket and held up a small device, like a remote.

For a moment Jack didn't understand what it was, then she hit the ground, her mind suddenly white. She barely registered what had happened: a sabotaged amp. The feedback—the mental equivalent of a flashbang—left her shivering on the floor.

It was embarrassing, and it pissed her off: she'd underestimated Rogers. She'd kept the fancy, expensive amp she'd been given while serving with the bitch because it was something of Cerberus' that she could take from them…

The ground shivered under her cheek as her mind began to clear. Rogers prowling towards her…or the mech…or both.

Jack gathered her mental resources, flopped onto her back and, with a shout, launched a shockwave. She could not keep up a powerful biotic assault for long without an amp, but she could manage more than most biotics could.

The shockwave hit Rogers squarely, sending her staggering back, buffeted by dark energy.

Jack was on her knees, ready to push to her feet when Rogers retaliated.

Rogers, annoyed by the unexpected force of the amp-less attack and its effectiveness, regained her feet in a trice, her expression contorted with temper and the anticipation of squashing a particularly irritating bug.

She would not have looked that way if Jack had her amp, and Jack knew it. It was in this moment, when she did not have the upper hand, when she could not _get_ the upper hand, that she felt the moment of panic so many had felt when she'd used her biotics against them.

Rogers' _slam_ left Jack stunned, aware of her kids being cornered by foot soldiers and a heavy mech.

"Round up the children—but do it gently. Oh, Jack." Now that Rogers seemed sure to win, the cat that ate the canary expression and tone were back in place.

And, sure enough, the bitch took that moment to light up. Jack flexed her fingers, need driving back pain. She'd never been biotically slammed like that, not when she couldn't do a thing about it…

"You should have picked your sides a _little_ more carefully."

Jack yelped as Rogers kicked her in the ribs. Bones seemed to crack under the toe of the former soldier's boot—a boot which pressed against Jack's throat a moment later. "You're powerful, Jack. But stupid," Rogers continued in an undertone. The pressure on Jack's throat increased. Rogers drew her sidearm, then primed it. "For your comfort, you've caused me some inconvenience. You killed Trey and I couldn't use Tonya for anything _._ "

That was all right. Jack hadn't known, but as long as Rogers was content to talk, she could try to scrape together enough energy—to push the painand fear aside—to kill Rogers at the very least.

All she needed was Rogers' gun…and Jack was well-practiced in the art of _getting angry_.

"But that's all right. There's a whole new talent pool here. And there isn't a damn thing you can do, my dear Subject Zero. Which is why I'm not going to kill you. _Yet._ "

Rogers' eyes drifted from Jack's face to her left hand. So much for the element of surprise…

"If you wish to kill me…" Rogers raised her foot a little to allow her victim a chance to speak. "You had better get it right. The first time."

"Thanks for the heads-up, Rogers," an unfamiliar voice broke in.

The pressure vanished from Jack's throat. With all her strength she rolled away from Rogers, away from the unknown interloper, and was immediately dragged to her feet and shunted away by many pairs of hands. She came to rest behind the barrier of an asari.

"Go!" the asari pointed to where the students had bunkered down. "If you can help them, help them!"

Biotic energy crackled, albeit weakly, around Jack. She wanted to fight…but knew she didn't have that sort of juice left. But she could hold a barrier for a while, yet—and coordinate the kids' attacks…

…it would have to do. She didn't like it, but it would have to do.

-J-

Author's Note: Just a reminder that I did tweak Jack's overpowered abilities a little to conform to the lore back in Newton's Second (namely, even she shouldn't have been able to do so much damage on Purgatory without an amp, and I couldn't see her _being_ amped while in a megasecurity prison setting), so that rebalancing of ability is still in effect.


	156. Face to Face

"Oh Jack," the familiar precise yet silky tones made Shepard bristle as she stop her team. Within the room were Rogers, her victim, a heavy mech, and a half-dozen Cerberus foot soldiers…the latter two were closing on a sort of overlook which showed signs of being reinforced with biotic barriers.

The students had bunkered down in hopes that the instructor would be able to do something…but it looked to Shepard as though Rogers' scheming ways had again handed victory to the biotic.

Shepard had never hated Rogers more than she did at that moment.

"You should have picked your sides a little more carefully." The sound of a grunt, a kick, and a yelp of pain which suddenly gargled.

Shepard peered around the nearest cover to find Rogers standing over a prone form, foot on the figure's throat, biotic corona flaring.

"I'm going after Rogers—she can't leave here alive. She's too big a liability. Garrus, you're in charge: get the instructor, get the kids. See what you can do about Rogers' forces," Shepard dictated hurriedly. "Then turtle up and we'll go from there."

"Got it," Garrus nodded, patting Shepard's shoulder. "I'll hold back until you've got her attention…unless the mech opens fire."

"Yeah…" Shepard bit her lip, mind working overtime. There had to be something wrong with the instructor's amp: otherwise there would be a real scuffle going on. She'd seen some of the bodies her team hadn't made: heavy warps and she didn't know what else.

"Shepard, I can do this," Liara interrupted.

"No: the kids are the priority. I want your very formidable barriers between them and trouble," Shepard shook her head. "Trust me." She did not point out that she felt responsible for this rogue N7.

Rogers had disgraced the uniform and was currently an active hostile. Shepard was perfectly justified in taking her out. No need to drag her back to face a tribunal: this was war. Taking prisoners wasn't high on the priority list.

"For your comfort, you've caused me some inconvenience. You killed Trey and I couldn't use Tonya for anything _._ But that's all right. There's a whole new talent pool here," Rogers continued, a horrible animal savagery beneath the veneer of pleasantness. "And there isn't a damn thing you can do, my dear Subject Zero. Which is why I'm not going to kill you. _Yet._ "

Shepard activated her tactical cloak and began moving, a tech mine dropping silently into one hand, her thumb planted securely on the trigger mechanism. Rogers was so focused on her victim that she did not notice the faint distortion in the air that marked a cloaked individual. 

"But if _you_ wish to kill _me_ …" Rogers must have raised her foot a little, to allow the downed woman to speak. For a moment it looked as though the biotic—Jack—would manage to throw Rogers away from her, like wet tissue paper, but Rogers merely resumed the pressure on Jack's throat, unconcerned. "You have better get it right. The _first_ time."

"Thanks for the heads-up, Rogers," Shepard stated, as much for the satisfaction of interrupting Rogers' monologue as to further distract the biotic.

Rogers did not finish turning around before Shepard clamped the tech mine to her amp. She did, however, recognize Shepard's voice just as surely as Shepard had recognized hers over the intercom.

Shepard threw herself backwards, preferring a fall to being caught by any biotic field—no matter how weak—or by a flailing limb. She'd learned the flaw of this trick with Saren: a tech mine designed to cause an amp to malfunction had to be a stick-and-detonate sort of thing.

Unlike Saren all that time ago, when Shepard first tried this trick, Rogers did not get the mine detached in time to save her amp. A soft 'pff!' marked the detonation, eliciting an incongruous shriek of pain. Rogers hit the ground twitching, her fingers flexing and uncurling as she tried to…what? Deal with the sudden feedback? Or had Shepard succeeded in destroying something critical enough to cripple the biotic?

The attack was intended to incapacitate, not to kill…though if death was the outcome Shepard would not complain.

Shepard grabbed the downed instructor, yanked her to her feet and gave her a hard shove in the general direction of the rest of the ground team: she did not want an amp-less, damaged biotic sprawling on the floor.

For a moment the Cerberus assault on the students lifted as they turned their attention to their downed leader.

That was, Shepard thought with grim amusement as Garrus and the others opened fire on Rogers' henchmen, the problem with using indoctrinated drones instead of individuals capable of free thought. The unit lost its capacity for adaptation to a situation.

Or maybe they really were that stupid. It was hard to tell sometimes, Shepard thought nastily, when it came to Cerberus.

Rogers, however, was an N7 to the core—if a corrupt one. As such, she did not let pain or shattered plans do more than slow her down for a moment. She forced herself to her knees then staggered to her feet, one hand reaching back. She flung her damaged amp away from herself with all the disgust of ridding herself of a sweat-sodden towel. "You idiots! Take the kids! If you can't take them, kill them! Do it! I've got this," she added in an undertone.

For a single moment she and Shepard stood stock still, looking one another in the eyes, two exquisitely trained soldiers, gifted in the arts of war strategy beyond the scope of most others. Both were examples of the finest the Alliance military had to offer—in terms of skill, training, and experience—but now the two women finally had something past this shared background in common.

They shared the sentiment that this confrontation was too long in coming and that only one of them would walk away from it.

And the word 'walk' simply meant 'not in a body bag.'


	157. Catfight

Rogers' Cerberus forces obeyed her snarled command without question: they focused on the students, which meant contending with Shepard's strike team, first.

Shepard's team, with Garrus spearheading the effort, trusted Shepard to contend with an amp-less Rogers. Most of them knew there was enough bad-blood between Rogers and Shepard that anyone who involved themselves in the fight might find themselves more of a liability than an assistance.

So, Rogers and Shepard seemed to remain outside the conflict, on their own battlefield, fighting their own personal war.

For a moment the two women stood stock still, except for their eyes which tracked across their opponent. The assessment lasted only a few seconds, but it spoke loudly of similar training.

And, Shepard thought grimly, things were near to _ceteris paribus._ How would _that_ affect Rogers? Rogers, who depended so heavily on her biotics that she probably didn't realize she did so.

So, Shepard wondered for a split second, where was her crutch? What was her blind spot?

Time to find out.

Action followed hard on the heels of completed assessments.

Rogers drew her sidearm, leveling it at Shepard with the speedy reflexes honed from a love of sneak attacks. It was clear that this was no shot from the hip: this was _practice_ , year after year of it.

Shepard rolled for cover, her shields taking the several bullets that Rogers unleashed from her pistol. Hastily, she manufactured a tech mine, primed it, and popped up long enough to lob it at Rogers. The pitch was so furious—she needed it as close to Rogers' gun as possible—that it made her shoulder hurt.

Echoes of training past rang in her mind: _come on, Shepard. I know you're a girl but dammit, you don't have throw like one! You're in the marines, now, dammit!_

Rogers swore as the tech mine let off a pulse which elicited a scream of protest from her weapon. She cast the worthless heap of scrap aside and mustered the remains of her biotic ability. When Shepard appeared again, bringing her shotgun up, Rogers had just enough 'juice' left to wrench it away from Shepard altogether, flinging the weapon well out of reach.

For a moment there was stillness. Rogers had little left as far as biotics went. She had no sidearm and no chance of getting one.

Shepard still had her pistol and her repurposed Collector beam, but she did not like the idea of using the particle beam while Rogers stood between her and the kids. She was fairly certain that seeing the beam cutting towards them would be enough to make any one of the kids drop their shields out of shock.

-J-

Rogers was not completely at a disadvantage yet, nor was she at the bottom of her bag of tricks. She was getting there though, and knew she had to end this quickly. She saw Shepard's eyes move past her, gauging whether something might endanger the students.

She cared too much. That was why she would lose. It was a rule of survival.

Rogers unclipped a smoke grenade from her belt and had it out of her hand before Shepard reacted.

Shepard had the particle beam off her back by the time Rogers was upon her, but barely had time to do more than slam it into Rogers, a warding gesture.

Rogers took the blow stoically, grabbed hold of the weapon with one hand and meant to slam the heel of the other into Shepard's elbow.

Shepard knew this very well. She let go of the particle beam with one hand and caught Roger's blow with it. She pivoted, seeking to pull Rogers into a position where a second blow might be landed, but Rogers had the same training.

She ducked, following Shepard's pull until Shepard couldn't continue the pivot. The particle beam came loose from Shepard's hand, but Rogers never got a grip on it.

Shepard swung back around, her blow sending the weapon out of Roger's hands to land on the floor some distance away. Kick and punch, block and duck—though the blows themselves did little damage when connecting with armor plates—it was Rogers' only way to keep Shepard from going for her sidearm—and the only way for Shepard to keep Rogers from trying to take the pistol from her.

Sweat poured down both faces, faces rosy with exertion. Hatred, pure and unmitigated now that they could fight without concern for propriety or 'lack of provocation,' colored both their countenances. It was exactly what always happened when two polar opposites were placed in a room together: they inevitably collided.

It was a new experience for both women, coming up against an opponent who shared so much of the basic training that general tactics did not work effectively. It was one of the things no training program could truly prepare a student for: how did one battle against one of their own?

Taking an opponent's weapon was not an option for either of them. So much was this the case that Shepard unfastened her pistol and threw it as far as she could before reaching out to grab Rogers in order to prevent the biotic from following the gun.

It went against all protocol, all training, all better judgment to let a weapon lie around for just anyone to pick up…but in if she left it where it was, Rogers would surely get it, sooner or later. Now, if Rogers wanted it, she had to _get to it_ —and Shepard could tackle her, at the very least, before she got halfway.

Rogers was having the greater difficulty even though she put up the fiercer fight: she could not remember the last time she'd needed to combat an opponent without the benefit of her biotics. However, knowing that Shepard was now unarmed—or seemed to be—she had one more trick.

She only needed a lure…

…her eyes fell on the place where Shepard's pistol had fallen. That would have to do.


	158. Last Resort

Pain clawed its way up Rogers' spinal cord, sending scratching sharp fingernails raking through her brain. White spots and purple shadows danced across her vision, moving about with every tiny readjustment of her visual focus. A hot coal sat where her headjack used to be, and freezing sparks indicated how the hardware fizzled.

It would have stopped a lesser individual, but not Rogers. She refused to be stopped by something as mundane as damaged wiring. She tried not to think about the fallout of 'damaged L2 implants,' ignored the ice water in her stomach as she regarded Shepard.

Rogers let her gaze conspicuously wander to Shepard's pistol, discarded to prevent it being taken from and used against her. Rogers knew what Shepard was thinking: a pistol on the floor was a _potential_ weapon. It, in and of itself, was not dangerous unless she tripped on it or until it was claimed. Her attention remained fixed on the truly dangerous thing in the room.

Not her teammates, not Rogers' band of thinned-out, now mech-less cronies. Idiots: they'd been faced with _children_!

Hot acid bubbled in Rogers' guts, a painful tingling shooting all along her wiring from fingertips to amp as she twitched them. Damn it all.

Rogers did not find herself unsettled by Shepard's vivid gaze and stony features. Shepard was just another soldier; the only thing that could salvage today would be to expose the great Captain Shepard as being _human_. The best way to do _that_ was to see her _dead_.

Rogers dove for the pistol, Shepard reacting almost as fast.

Even without a functional amp Rogers could still generate a weak mass effect field. In this case, she forced every iota of power she could muster, braved the clanging headache and the freezing, burning tingling agony of damaged wiring, into the act.

Biotics, when amp-less, could not muster enough power to do very much, but desperation often allow a human to do remarkable things. It was not as if Rogers wanted to lift a bus off some unfortunate child.

She yanked the pistol out of Shepard's reach. Shepard changed directions too quickly, slipping on the floor just enough to cause her to overbalance, dumping her on one hip.

Rogers did the only thing she could: she ran.

She dropped to grab the pistol, her mind already locked on to an escape route…

Black smoke billowed from nowhere, followed by the force of a truck slamming into her. Shepard, in a tackle a football player could be proud off, collided with Rogers, taking the biotic awkwardly to the ground.

Rogers brought up one arm to prevent Shepard from lodging an elbow in her throat. It was a stopgap tactic, not meant to hold a person for long, just long enough to figure out something else. Roger's other hand scrabbled as she bent one knee…if she could just…reach…

Her fingers found what she was looking for, jimmied it loose…

Shepard shrieked as pain cut cold and unforgiving across her face. Blood blossomed from a glancing blow inflicted by Rogers' stiletto, now bloody and in the biotic's hand.

Rogers took advantage of the milliseconds it took Shepard to process and react to pain, blindness, fear, and the emergency release of adrenaline. She rocked forward, bringing her forehead square against Shepard's, her off hand awkwardly striking Shepard on the underside of the chin, snapping her head back.

Shepard struck out, only half-blinded and quickly regaining control over her situation.

Monocular vision was better than none at all, pain could be pushed aside, and as long as the enemy had a weapon in hand worse damage could occur—

Rogers knew that litany, too.

It was a first for Rogers, being in a position where she wasn't a few paces ahead of an opponent; now, it was as if she was in Shepard's mind and Shepard in hers. It was a strange sort of synchronization of thought, the organization of data, all of it arranged nearly by the paradigm of training and a certain accustomedness to extreme situations.

Rogers hated it. She hated the idea someone could be on the same page as she was, could match her move for move, blow for blow…

More than that was the cold realization, the nasty truth, that Shepard still had plenty of fight in her.

She was not on the same page as Shepard, Rogers realized: Shepard had slammed the book closed and thrown it across the room, opting to make up her own ending…

…and Rogers' sense of familiarity with her opponent vanished.

Or perhaps that had to do with pain: Shepard's next blow hit Rogers in the cheek, but did not succeed in crushing her sinus. Rogers slashed again with the knife, but Shepard expected it, letting the blow glance off her armored left forearm—

 _Left_.

Rogers danced back from Shepard, whose face was blanched, one visible eye contrasting hideously with the blood…and in her right hand was her own combat knife, pulled from her web gear as a thing of last recourse.

 _Don't bring a knife to a gunfight_. An N7 trained to use all manner of weapons from the most basic to the mildly exotic, but the combat knife was always, _always_ a weapon of last recourse. When biotics, tech, and bullets failed…then, and only then, was there the knife.

Rogers feinted left, then cried out in surprise and frustration as thick black smoke appeared in Shepard's off hand. The canister landed near her feet just as the smoke grenade began spewing in earnest.

Rogers staggered for a moment: she no longer had a clear run to the only available exit. When she could see she could have vaulted rows of seating, dodged other obstacles…but with the smoke she couldn't gauge that first hop and slide…

But she knew Shepard would not come charging out of the smoke, either. Shepard needed time to field dress the wound—Rogers could only hope she'd succeeded in taking Shepard's eye…but she didn't think it likely.


	159. Final

Rogers' shriek of frustrated attempts to escape was music to Shepard's ears as Shepard dropped to the floor, as low as she could get, and freed a tube of medigel from her web gear. The gel went on cold and viscous, hardening in moments over her eye.

She did not think Rogers succeeded in damaging the organ, but it didn't matter: what did matter was that the bleeding had stopped (though the edges of the wound, shy of her eye, still felt unnaturally cold) and that Rogers had realized she was not in a position to win.

How many times had Shepard wished she could corner Rogers? Wished she could purge the canker from the Alliance?

She didn't feel that almost patriotic sense of doing some service for the organization. Now it was just personal, though not because Rogers had left her a souvenir scar. It was just plain personal, because everyone had _someone_ they couldn't stand, someone they would love to bring down. Just not always this vehemently or violently.

"Lock down Orion hall! Lock us down, EDI!" Shepard shouted into her radio as she got up, dodging around the smoke.

Rogers had already broken through, was running for the stairs below the balcony room where the biotics had bunkered down.

" _Locking Orion hall and its environs down. Done,_ " EDI announced briskly. " _You may wish to hurry, Shepard. Reinforcements are imminent."_

"No! Stay back! Stay where you are, worry about the kids and those reinforcements!" Shepard shouted. That was her 'official' reason for not wanting the rest of her team to help her give chase.

She could not even share this moment with Garrus.

The instant she careened into the hall beyond the one door EDI was prudent enough to leave open (assuming that, since Shepard was giving chase the quarry had already gotten through the first door) the whole matter became less personal.

This was, as Rogers skidded to a halt, slamming a frustrated fist on the locked-down door, merely an N7 dealing with a rogue operative. A rogue operative, furthermore, who was currently armed, currently hostile, and currently part of an initiative to kidnap some of Earth's best and brightest minors.

Whatever her personal reasons, Shepard had professional ones—it was what legitimized her actions. Hadn't she counseled Garrus that way before? 'Don't let your emotions override your head.' There had to be a reason past personal vengeance…

…and this was not even vengeance. This wasn't justice.

This was just business.

She'd feel vengeful later, when she found out how badly Rogers had mussed her face.

Rogers whipped about, mouth drawn into a thin line, her hawklike features made completely unattractive with rage and exertion. She stepped back, chest and shoulders evidencing heaving breaths. A faint tingle of dark energy hung around her, but it was probably all she could muster.

Shepard wanted to say something, but found she could only gaze coldly down the hall at the deranged biotic. It was clear to her in that one moment of near-silence, the only sound the puff and gasp for breath on both their parts, that something in Rogers was close to snapping—if it hadn't already.

If she could find the right words, the right pressure so to speak, she could unhinge Rogers…

…but was it advisable? Rogers was insane to begin with. Destroy her tentative control and what would happen? Would she collapse into a gibbering, slavering heap on the floor? Or would she go utterly berserk?

On top of this unknown, Rogers was cornered: and a cornered animal was extremely dangerous. She was also armed—though Shepard liked the idea that her combat knife wasn't as flimsy as that little stiletto.

"No attempts to reason?" Rogers asked.

"I think we're past reasoning, don't you?" Shepard's words came out flatly final and tinged with death.

Rogers sensed it, drew herself into a defensive stance.

There was nothing to be done, really: a standoff was counterproductive for both of them.

With a shout, Rogers charged, even as Shepard took the first few steps to do the same.

It was done in a trice: Rogers swung boldly at Shepard's face, counting on fresh experience to make Shepard's defensive reactions stronger when threatened by a knife. Shepard, however, dropped to both knees, trusting Rogers' momentum to be too much for a quick stop.

She was right. With a grunt and a push she sent herself shoulder-first into Rogers' knees, sending the biotic crashing sideways, face-first to the floor.

With speed born of necessity, Shepard turned, ignoring the tangle of legs that ensued, grabbed Rogers' hair in one hand and pulled her head back. With one powerful thrust, she drove her knife into the soft part of Rogers' jaw, deeply as she could.

Rogers went limp on the floor, blood blossoming on the white tile, pooling then snaking away from the injury.

Shepard freed her knife and let Roger's face fall forward. There was something final in the 'thunk' of Rogers' forehead hitting the floor. It was as if Shepard had cut herself free of a tether; she found herself moving a bit dazedly as she headed back to Orion Hall.

"It's Shepard!" Shepard entered to find Garrus and Vega poised on either side of the stairwell, ready to turn it into a shooting gallery.

"She scuffed you _good_ ," Garrus noted, relaxing.

"Yeah, I know," Shepard fingered the medigel patch, wondering how much it would affect the rest of the mission.

"She get your eye?" Vega demanded.

"I don't think so. Medigel's got it under control." Technically she shouldn't have used it as an eye patch, but combat was not obliging to the way things were 'technically' supposed to be. "Doesn't matter, we've gotta get these kids out of here."

Loss of depth perception would cause serious complications…but the cold band of the slash seemed to skim along the orbital's outer edge. She hoped Rogers' blow was superficial: the woman didn't deserve a real monument carved into an opponent's face.

-J-

Author's Note: Thanks to DantonWiles who pointed out some awkwardly repetitive prose. It's been adjusted. ^_^


	160. Folktale

"It's Shepard's fight, leave it alone," the turian growled before putting himself in the window, sniper rifle resting in his hand as he peered through the scope. Clearly he wasn't willing to follow his own advice—not if Shepard went down.

It was a brutal fight, knock-down drag out, moving in stages. Pistol versus techmine. Shotgun versus biotics—and the brunette wasn't even amped when she wrenched the shotgun away from her attacker! Trick with a smoke grenade met with a gun he'd never even seen before—a weapon the brunette ended up trying to either take or just deprive Shepard of. The weapon went flying, leaving the two women face to face, both of them with hard features—this was a death-match and no one who saw them going at it could possibly believe otherwise.

Prangley watched in sick fascination as the two soldiers tore into one another. Each landed blow sent a shockwave through the other fighter, and all he could think was of a portion of one of his favorite childhood stories.

 _Eye to eye and head to head_

 _(Keep the measure, Nag)_

 _This shall end when one is dead_

 _(At thy pleasure, Nag)_

And it totally looked that way as Shepard and the nameless brunette tore into one another, blocking punches and deflecting kicks as though they could read one another's minds. It was a little scary, this gridlock, and seeing how much that nameless brunette could do without her amp provided she had time between tricks to pull herself together. He and the others could barely levitate playing cards or cheat with a kicky-bag when not amped.

The string of attacks and defenses broke momentarily as the two fighters scrabbled over Shepard's sidearm, when went flying, removed from the fray by Shepard's herself.

For a moment the two fighters stood frozen, then both went for the pistol, the brunette using a push to send it out of Shepard's reach.

Shepard changed directions upon recognizing the feint for what it was—who expected someone to try escaping at a time like this when they were stuck in a space station!?—but fell off-balance.

"Whoo!" Kellogg barked as Shepard got to her feet with the speed of someone for whom reaction time was often a matter of life and death, giving chase without apparent thought for the fact that they were on a locked-down space station—so there was only so far the brunette could go.

Shepard slammed into the brunette with a full-body tackle—hence why Kellogg, an avid football lover approved—that sent both of them skidding across the floor. They tussled for a few moments before Shepard let out a screech that seemed more shock than pain before another few seconds of tussling left Shepard staunching a sudden sheeting of crimson from her face.

"Is she okay?" Froeburg demanded.

"Just winged. It'll only piss her off," the turian answered with detached amusement.

A moment later, both women were on their feet again, and it was down to knives—the sharp stiletto the brunette had used to slash at Shepard's face, and Shepard's own combat knife, a heavy-looking thing that seemed much more intimidating than the delicate stiletto.

The brunette apparently thought so, too—

"Hah!" Rodriguez cheered when Shepard dodged a blow and black smoke began to billow from her hand before landing at the brunette's feet in order to spew even greater vision-obscuring smoke.

The elation at more clever trickery when the playing field was so level was broken a moment later when, out of the smoke, the brunette sprinted, clearly in full retreat.

"No way!" one of the others called indignantly, eliciting several move voices giving vent to insults and abuse.

"Lock down Orion hall! Lock us down, EDI!" Shepard snarled as she gave immediate chase.

Both women vanished from sight, and no more sound reached the onlookers.

"Liara, stay here with the kids! James," the turian barked before he and the human soldier left the now-fortified overlook.

Prangley swallowed hard. It seemed so stupid for childhood stories to come back so forcibly, but he couldn't shake the idea that Shepard should _never_ have followed the brunette into that narrow, obstructed hallway. It was like a mongoose following a cobra into its den—unwise, since the snake had the home turf advantage.

Time seemed to tick so slowly by, and more than one nervous looks were exchanged among the students.

After what seemed like forever came a faint voice: "It's Shepard!" A moment later, Shepard reappeared, still bloody all down one side of her face—head wounds bled freely, Prangley remembered, making them look worse than they often were—pink cheeked and moving a little stiffly, but her easy manner suggested she had no more concerns, not one, about the nameless brunette.

And there was only reason that could be.

"She scuffed you _good_ ," the turian noted from his position near the stairwell.

"Yeah, I know."

"She get your eye?" the soldier called James demanded.

"I don't know. Medigel's got it under control. Doesn't matter, we've got to get these kids out of here," she answered briskly.

Prangley snorted as Jack elbowed her way to the nearer of the two entrances to the fortified room in order to speak with the rescue party. That was some pretty singular focus. With the other students, he filtered out of the room to better see what was going on.

Shepard stood there, winded as she tried (and failed) to wipe away some of the blood on her face. She'd used medigel to cover the space around her eye, thus sealing the wound, but she remained such a mess…

She seemed unaware of it, however, as she began talking with Jack (who would, he knew, be in a more temperamental mood than ever, ampless when there was fighting to be done).

And all he could think was the last line in the poem he had in mind:

 _Hah! The Hooded Death has missed!_

 _(Woe betide thee, Nag.)_

-J-

Author's Note: Excerpts taken from Rudyard Kipling's "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi."


	161. Belong

"And here was me expecting the King of the Boy Scouts," Jack announced, breaking up the soldier moment.

Shepard grimaced, muttering something containing the word 'hospital.'

Jack's stomach chilled. Rational said it was unlikely, with all the billions of sapients in the galaxy, that they were talking about the same person. The Alliance was probably _full_ of guys who could hold that title. Still…she found herself wanting to hear that it wasn't the guy _she_ knew. "Who's in hospital now?"

"One of my guys," Shepard answered with a shrug that suggested 'in a galaxy full of sapients, he's probably got nothing to do with you—no offense.'

Jack wasn't offended. She just wanted to hear a name other than 'Kaidan Alenko.' "Well, for the record and so I can stay properly pissed off for the rest of this mission, this fella got a name?"

Shepard shrugged again, bright eye fixed on Jack. She had, Jack realized, an aura similar to Rogers', something coolly competent, capable, in control of the situation. Even with a face covered in blood, and that blood still randomly dripping every now and then, she seemed to have it filed under 'business as usual.'

Jack was glad Rogers was dead, but kind of wished she'd been there to land the killing blow. However, even though she'd made to follow, to help, the turian had been adamant: 'stay with your kids. Shepard has this.'

 _Her_ kids. Not anything weird and motherly, but they were _hers_ …and she'd caught them glancing at her from time to time, as if they meant to take their cue from her. Kahlee had spent Shepard's momentary disappearance bombarding her with questions after the kids' (and her own) wellbeing. Been downright hen-like fussy, if truth be told.

"Major Alenko."

Jack choked and the turian gave a curious trilling sound. " _Kaidan_ F—Alenko?" Jack demanded.

Shepard nodded, looking a little surprised at the vehemence of Jack's reaction.

Honestly, Jack felt a little ashamed of her outburst, but holding back out of embarrassment had never been one of her usual character traits. "That little—" she had to quash what she _wanted_ to call him, because the kids looked way too interested. "We're gonna have a talk when I get out here," Jack grumped. _Hospital_? And here she'd thought he was okay in the galaxy!

"So you know him?" Shepard asked.

"Yeah, I know him. F—stupid idiot boy scout king of the—" Jack cut herself off in a strangled growl.

"How's your wiring?"

Jack was glad for the change of topic, trying to tell herself she was annoyed and not a little hurt that Kaidan hadn't felt it necessary to let her know he'd been hurt, but was recovering. Jack flexed a hand, gave a full-body shudder—which elicited some concern from the kids—when the biotic energy moved through her. "Not doing much without an amp," she answered flatly, letting the charge go.

Shepard looked her up and down, then shrugged. "Have a pistol." The soldier had reclaimed hers at some point, and now offered it to Jack.

"Better than nothing. How do you know Kaidan?"

Huh. There was nothing jealous in Shepard's gaze, but there was something in that eye-sweep—she had expressive eyes, Jack thought blandly. Jack could almost hear the question: ' _you call him Kaidan? Why?_ '

Wait… _this_ was the girl he was in it with? Jack's instinct to tease and unease reduced to a manageable level. Damn. Alenko might be built like a brick wall, but Shepard here was just _fierce_. Probably tougher than he was. Didn't guys get weirded out by stuff like that? Still…Kaidan was a big softie, all things considered.

"Small galaxy," Jack shrugged.

A couple of titters, then Prangley (backed by Froeberg and Rodriguez) began mumbling 'it's a small world after all!'

"Cut that shit out," Jack snapped…but it was a snap that lacked a lot of effect.

The kids obeyed, but grinned at her.

Damn, she'd forgotten how adaptable kids were. Good thing, too. She didn't think she could handle trauma. "Look, forget Kaidan, he's not here—and now I know why." She'd talk to him later. You didn't hide hospitals from your…were they friends? That was weird…when did that happen? "All I care about is getting my guys out of here."

Because they hated being called 'kids.' She tried not to when she talked _to_ them, even if they totally were. They had to grow up sometime. At least they were doing it with competent people keeping an eye on the process. Killing, for her, was just part of how the galaxy turned. For the kids…they were sheltered. They might have some problems…but no more, she told herself, than any seventeen-year-old who got into the Alliance and ended up in a combat zone. It wasn't like they were going to be killing anyone at knifepoint anytime soon.

"Speaking of—amp check! Get an energy bar," Jack barked.

The biotics pulled energy bars out of pockets and began munching before several opened the mini fridge and passed around whatever cold drinks were in there.

Jack reached into her own pocket. Yeah, energy bars were nasty, but these weren't too bad.

Shepard's gaze slid across the kids, clustered together as they ate. When Shepard looked back to her, Jack felt as if she'd been judged, scored, graded…and passed with approval. It made her feel self-conscious, which she didn't deal with well.

Fortunately, energy bars didn't take long to eat. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"Agreed," several of Shepard's team answered with her.

"Alright," Jack snapped at her students, "I didn't bust my ass training you do you could die now."

The kids straightened up, attentions focusing on her, trusting her to get them through this…because while Shepard might be gung-ho and cool…Jack was one of them. Theirs. They might _obey_ the solider…but they'd _listen_ to Jack.

Inwardly, Jack sighed. They really were going to do their best to make her soft and fuzzy, weren't they?


	162. Harsh

"Alright," Jack snapped at her students, "I didn't bust my ass training you do you could die now. So—"

" _Students of Grissom Academy_ ," Cerberus' secondary propagandist began. " _The station is sealed. The Alliance soldiers cannot save you. All they can do is get you killed. Surrender peacefully and you won't be harmed._ "

Almost every adult gave a 'kh' of disbelieving disgust.

"Can we shut this asshole up?" Jack demanded, her biotics flaring.

"EDI?" Shepard asked.

" _I will try. One moment…done. I have blocked loudspeaker access. I recommend turning all omnitools to private mode to prevent tracking."_

"You heard the lady," Shepard declared, painfully aware that the promise of safety with Cerberus warred with the very real presence of soldiers who'd fought to get to them and were preparing to fight to get them out.

"What if," one of the girls piped up, the words seemingly wrenched out of her, "what if they're not lying?"

"What?" Before Shepard, or anyone else, could interject, Jack grabbed the girl by the front of the shirt, dragging her so close their noses almost touched. The biotic flared, her skin draining of color, making the tattoos stand out grotesquely.

"Look at the scars," Jack snarled, turning her head so some of the old wounds on her neck were _very_ clearly visible. The rest of the students complied with the order, picking out the old injuries from the sea of ink and biotic blue. "Take a _good_ _long_ look, Rodriguez, 'cause Cerberus did _that_ to me when I was _half_ your age!" She gave Rodriguez a hefty push, her expression almost feral as she looked from the girl to the others.

Fear, Shepard catalogued it, the fear reaction of an abused creature was to snarl and show its teeth when frightened. It seemed clear to her that the fear was _for the students_ , not _of Cerberus_.

Shepard glanced at one of the downed Cerberus troops, then made her decision. Harsh reality, brutal reality, was necessary. At least the Cerberus drones would be easier to dehumanize than other sapients…or so she hoped. Maybe her own experiences over-colored her perceptions.

"Hey, get your butts over here." Shepard, feeling a little uneasy over what she was about to do, beckoned the students over to one of the fallen Cerberus operatives. She found herself very aware of how young these kids seemed; one or two of them were no older than she had been when her world was burned out from under her.

This was war. The innocence of never having killed a fellow sapient was one of the first to go. But if she could somehow precondition them _not_ to think of Cerberus' troops as _people…_ it would be better for them in the long run.

That was what she told herself.

"You want to know what they're going to do to you if they catch you?" Shepard freed the agent's helmet and yanked it off, tossing it out of the way. The pale, husk-like face stared sightlessly out at the students, all of whom recoiled with gasps and expressions of disgust. He did look like a movie prop, Shepard thought darkly. "Take a good look, because this is Cerberus' definition of 'help.' They've been _improved—_ to quote the so-called man with the plan." She exerted a careful emphasis on the words, letting anger at the idea that these kids might be destined for something as ugly if captured quell her nausea at dispelling illusions. "And while we're on the subject of what they are…"

She shouldered her rifle, releasing a single shot into the agent's chest, not even looking at him. "They're _not_ human anymore."

Another shot, again to the chest. "They're not even alive."

Another shot to the chest. "They're just hydraulics…"

 _Bang_.

"And bio-paste." The last round sunk between the eyes, producing a pool of blood, brain, and synthetic goo to pool beneath the ruined head. "Once this happens," Shepard continued coldly, "you won't care about family, or your friends. You'll warp when they tell you, push when they tell you, march when they tell you. Once this happens, there is no going back. There is no cure. Do _not_ get into a position to be taken. Stay together."

Silence had fallen over the group. Some of the students looked away from the mangled corpse, others tried to, but their eyes kept sliding back to it, still others stared white-faced and frightened.

Despite the knowledge that it was better for them to think of the Cerberus agents as husks rather than _people_ , she felt too much like Rogers for comfort.

At least none of them were throwing up; adrenaline was still strong enough in their veins to push back that kind of nervous reaction.

On the optimistic side, they may not suffer the initial reactions to killing a fellow sapient if the idea that these Cerberus operators weren't actually sapients anymore took root. She hoped it would.

Jack, giving Shepard a grim, cold look, flicked a hand at the corpse and sent it streaking across the room. It slammed into a wall with a sickening crunch, then dropped like a stone. "When you're done showing off, I'd like to get the hell out of here. It stinks like Cerberus."

"That it does," Shepard agreed quietly. "Vega, go with the kids, provide cover fire of anything gets too close. Liara, Garrus, Javik, you're with me. We'll pick up anyone else we can find." She could feel the Prothean's disapproval of her 'soft methods' with these children, but found herself able to ignore it. Given his way, the kids would probably end up utterly paralyzed and unable to press on.

Desperation made waste, and Javik's cycle's desperation yielded wasteful generations.

"We'll follow along topside," Jack was saying, "and if you'd soak up the bullets, that'd be nice."

"Won't be the first time I was someone's bullet magnet," Shepard answered prosaically.

"Yeah," Garrus nodded, clapping Shepard's shoulder heartily, "and in case of heavy artillery you brought a missile magnet."


	163. Words Unspoken

It was cacophonous and the quadrangles didn't play well with the non-quadrangular polygons.

But the generator hummed softly, its net of blue hexagons cast over them like the hemisphere of sky on a strange world. That was what a sky _should_ look like, all the stars neatly connected into regular mathematical order, a symphony of congruency and variation.

David flinched as gunfire erupted, squeezing his eyes closed. Numbers and equations danced in his head, the only thing that kept him from screaming and screaming and screaming until lungs and vocal cords and blood vessels burst.

These Cerberus people…they were wrong. Their cacophony silent, but the flow of arithmetical definition was unnatural. It wasn't really what they were. They weren't anything, as far as he could tell. They—or someone else—just thought they were.

He could calculate the volume of every drop of blood, even if he couldn't predict the paths the spatter would take as it worked its way down, according to gravity's otherwise predictable whims, until the mass was no longer sufficient to support downward motion.

But as he watched, he saw the source of the gunfire. He knew their cacophony, the strange jumbles of noise that were most human beings. Most aliens, too. They lacked the rhythmic predictability of mathematics, lacked the orderly logic of equations that played like symphonies before his eyes, lacked the graceful flow of a language he couldn't communicate to others—sometimes to his own consternation.

But he knew their chaotic sounds. Some of them. He knew the woman leading the set, knew the turian beside her. Always beside her.

"Hey, it's okay." She called herself Shepard. That wasn't the way it appeared in his mind, but he couldn't pronounce the scrolling ribbon of descriptive formulae that coiled like lines and verse on the spindle of his mind. Maybe for the Normandy's lovely computer, but not for anyone here. "I'm Captain Shepard, I'm here to help you."

Because that was what she did.

Octavia snorted, less comforted than he was by the impenetrable network of stars and math. "I didn't buy it from the last guy, and I'm not buying it now."

David winced at the anomalous vocal pitch. Octavia, like Isaac, was quieter than a lot of people, but still loud. He sometimes thought this quietude came from the possibility that they were closer to understanding the language of the universe—mathematics—than most, and that they were closer to _him_ as a result. They still failed to communicate on the same band, still failed to pass the walls of noise and confusion that prevented a real conclave. But, if he could meet the mind of another, he thought he would like to meet Isaac and Octavia.

"The square root of nine hundred and six point one is…?" His eyes lifted to knee level, to find Shepard had taken a knee, bringing herself closer to being on a plane with him. He looked down under her direct gaze. He had trouble meeting eyes. Eyes were windows into the cacophony he didn't understand, which defied order and logic; eyes were wells, and he could drown in what lay within those wells.

"Thirty point one," Shepard answered. "Hello, David."

"Hello, Shepard."

"David?" Isaac asked. "Do you know her?"

"Yes. She rescued me from Cerberus. Sent me here. She made it quiet." Somehow, he thought his _words_ —such a clumsy form of communication—didn't quite…mean what he wanted them to say. But others lacked capacity to understand the idea/sounds to explain that awful place, that awful time, then the glorious rebirth that followed.

Maybe the lovely computer could help? He'd glimpsed her then, hiding behind a barrier curtain of protective code. He tried to peek, to see—he'd never seen anything like her before—but she'd hidden while Shepard fought, fought to contain an…

…there was no word for what he was.

He much preferred being David.

The net of stars and hexagons disappeared, Isaac shuffling, Octavia rigidly still.

"You did a great job keeping yourselves safe," Shepard said. "I want you to stay close to Liara, here." She indicated the asari at the back of the group. "She'll protect you until we can get you back with the others."

"Uh…okay," Isaac nodded.

"Thanks," Octavia said.

"It's going to be okay," Shepard said, patting Octavia's shoulder gently.

She made it okay. He knew firsthand. He didn't understand the spark that passed between them, the one that turned the line of Octavia's mouth into a slight upward crescent, but he didn't have to. He could see it, though, wonder about it, even if he could never have it.

David got to his feet, muscles tingling from too many stop-pauses in the pattern of blood flow.

"He looks _much_ better," the turian said.

He felt much better. "I remember you," he addressed the turian's blue armor—a rich blue, a sad blue, a strong blue, which had a computation he could _see_ and which was beautiful…but which he could not share. "Normandy crew…sorry."

The turian shook his head. "It was never your fault."

"Has Grissom Academy been alright?" Shepard asked.

"I've been counting," David answered. Oh, how he'd been counting, calculating, composing—all for himself, because no one else could hear or see or perceive it, but oh, he'd been counting! There was sadness in him, but there was much room for joy, and hope, and things he wasn't sure he could elucidate even if he found his way into that place where minds met, where understanding no longer required crude words or awkward attempts at computation lines.

"Anything in particular?" Shepard asked.

He glanced to her chest, noted the tiny insignia there. N7. Yes. _That_ had meaning. That alphanumeric combination encapsulated her perfectly…but the nuance would be lost on anyone and everyone, because too many other people wore it, and they changed the light in which it was seen. For him, though, _she_ was N7, unique and discrete. "The number of days you lengthened my life."


	164. Brick

Javik felt _uncomfortable_. It wasn't that the weapons felt alien in his hands, that their function and operation was familiar enough to show how closely the Cycles mirrored one another while being alien enough to remind him of time past and time lost. It wasn't that this operation—he didn't doubt its _nobility_ , but nobility didn't win wars—was a waste of Shepard's time and effort, if she was truly considered to be the galaxy's 'Reaper expert.'

Probably, it was just the discomfort of the others rubbing off on him. They were an angry mix of disgust, revulsion, and resentment.

He expected more from the turian: Garrus knew there were no children in war zones, and the galaxy had again become one giant crucible. And yet, Shepard and the others acted as if age mattered, as if reality required blunting.

He didn't remember the first time he killed one of the Taken. He didn't remember the first time he killed a fellow sapient—or something that looked like one. In his mind, he'd been killing his whole life.

The faces of dead comrades paraded across his mind's eyes. The solemn procession didn't touch him with grief, merely left him cold and unyielding. He'd seen too many corpses. Their lives had mattered…but when he'd killed them, there had been nothing left.

He noticed what he didn't think anyone, not even the sharp-eyed turian, had: every time they came across a dead human, Shepard checked that human's face closely. Javik saw the momentary relief, then the return to anxiety. She was here to rescue these so-called children (they were _hardly_ children) but she was looking for someone. Someone she knew. Someone who mattered.

The acrid tang of fear lurked below her anger.

She cared too much.

And she should _never_ have given that Rogers-human the number of opportunities she had. She should have simply slipped up to her and shot her in the head before dropping her tactical cloak. If the matter required something more personal—he did understand 'personal' when it came to killing, and traitors required a personal touch—she should have simply slipped up, knife in hand, and slit the other woman's throat.

Even 'personal touches' required a certain pragmatism.

And what was the result? Now, she lacked depth perception, had a gaggle of children behind her fire team, and no way to get them to where the others were—out of the way.

But he was sure she'd found the child—this one…yes…definitely a child, compared to the others—she sought. The fearful tang in the air around her reduced now she had the lad where she could see him, could ascertain his safety for herself and ensure he remained safe.

Such a fussy female. How was it she hadn't any children of her own if she was so fond of them?

Somehow, Javik suspected him suggesting she get a start on the next generation's warriors by adding her own bloodline to the mix wouldn't go over well.

Still, it did strike him as odd that Shepard had no mate, nor even any hopefuls hanging around, nor yet even a bunk buddy or two to help keep her on an even keel.

In his Cycle, reproduction with the hope of bolstering the next generation of fighters was considered passé. It happened, of course it did, but children went to the _crèche_ and adults went back to war, probably never to see one another again. There was no 'hope' associated with 'the next generation.' They would dwindle just as his own had, as his parents' had.

Javik shook himself.

"It's going to get really loud," Shepard said, ushering the boy to where Liara and the other two students waited. "So put your fingers in your ears and stay close to Liara. It'll be over soon."

"I'm marksmanship program," the girl observed to Liara.

A quick glance between Liara and Shepard, a tip of Shepard's chin—finally, a little practicality—and Liara, with a smile, handed her pistol to the girl. "It's hard when you can't shoot back," she observed kindly.

The girl performed a quick weapon check. "It's harder when you can but are _unable_ ," came the pragmatic response.

"Javik. Up with me?" Shepard phrased it as a question, but Javik knew better.

He knew she didn't want him 'demoralizing' the 'kids' with his pragmatism. She hadn't said anything particular to him, but he knew the pre-mission briefing's cant: _the kids aren't collateral damage. So watch your damn fire._

"Hey Kahlee, got three more," Shepard announced.

" _Thank goodness…I think…I think everyone's accounted for,_ " the director responded uneasily.

A camera mounted to the wall turned to look at them. Javik's skin crawled at the thought of the machine fooling around in the station's systems. Didn't it have enough to do being a ship?

" _Confirmed_ ," the machine answered. " _Between the students with Jack, with you, and those we could not save, I have a complete roster._ "

Shepard exhaled. "Okay. Good to know."

It was not in Javik's nature to say 'you did your best' or comfort that grim expression with assurances of 'you can't save everyone,' so he did not bother trying. "If you do not wish to lose more, we should not linger."

" _Cerberus' forces are currently bottled up. There are pockets in your path, but reinforcements will_ _not_ _be joining this party_ ," the machine observed (he refused, on principle, to note the asperity in her tone. Machines didn't feel asperity or anything else.).

Shepard chuckled. "Javik's right, though. No sense just standing around. What kind of pockets are we talking about?"

" _The atrium through which you must go is rather thickly seeded. It is the most direct route to the shuttle bays. It also parallels the route the students and Jack will take._ "

"Did you get that, Jack?"

" _F—yeah, I got that. It's an open line. Lots of assholes, next room. Got it. Damn. I shoulda asked you to grab Rogers' smokes. I'm really jonesin',_ " the biotic grumbled.


	165. Tag In

Rodriguez let loose a high-pitched scream of pain, which elicited a barrage of concern from her classmates and the commandos dealing with most of Cerberus' firepower. "Damn it Rodriguez!" Jack hissed.

" _Is she okay?_ " Shepard demanded tersely.

"She's fine. Took a flesh wound because she _didn't watch her damn barrier_!" Jack answered sharply. How many times? How many times had she told Rodriguez to watch it?

Well, maybe now the lesson would stick. Pain was a great teacher.

There was, she thought as she examined the wound (or would have done, had Vega not appeared immediately with a tube of medigel), a silver lining to this unfortunate injury—the first one sustained by the students.

"Hey, easy, just a little nick. Looks worse than it is, I promise," Vega announced, smiling reassuringly at the girl.

Rodriguez, in spite of tears of pain and fear, did manage to smile back at the marine.

"Give me your amp," Jack said flatly, interrupting what was clearly a rose-colored, glitter-spangled, grade-A revolting romantic moment in Rodriguez's life. From Rodriguez's point of view, at least. She'd been casting _looks_ at the stocky marine since he'd been assigned to supply conventional cover fire.

Vega had ignored them, if he'd noticed at all.

If Rodriguez got winged because she'd been ogling that guy's ass…she'd either slap her over the back of the head or congratulate her taste in fine asses. Maybe both. He _did_ have a cute ass, though Jack considered herself more of a shoulders kind of girl.

He had a good pair of those too, but there was something about him she found decidedly…just not to her taste. Still, she might as well enjoy the view while she could…and that meant getting out of this shithole station, because no one could enjoy a view at a time like this.

"Whaa?" Rodriguez asked dazedly.

Jack doubted it was a medigel overdose daze. "Your amp, Princess. Give me your amp. Then you can put _all_ your attention in one place."

Rodriguez blushed scarlet as she scrambled to her feet, Vega's hands hovering in case she staggered or overbalanced. Shakily, Rodriguez removed her amp, then reluctantly handed it over.

"Can you use one of these?" Vega asked, indicating the handgun in his loadout.

"Without shooting myself you mean?" Rodriguez asked stiffly. "Yeah."

"Good." He unfastened the weapon, checked it, then handed it to Rodriguez who, without looking at him, performed the standard checks herself and swallowed hard, still scarlet.

The look Vega cast Jack was one of gratitude. Apparently he'd noticed the interest and—wisely—didn't return it. Didn't know how to discourage it, but that was okay. Jack did.

Jack fingered her headjack gently. Cerberus assholes built to last, she thought sourly. She'd said as much to Rogers and d'Angelo—assholes, both of them—once. She hadn't expected that mentality to extend to her. Rogers' sabotaged amp should have utterly wrecked her headjack and wiring, but it hadn't.

If it had, Jack would have _known_. But since it hadn't, there was no need for her to play splinter picker while Rodriguez was forgetting to watch her barrier. Hopefully the combination of pain and embarrassment in quick succession would proof the girl against distractions in combat.

Jack slid the amp in, shuddering visibly.

"Jack?" Rodriguez asked shrilly.

"I'm fine," Jack answered, rolling her shoulders. Nope. Rogers hadn't screwed her wiring, but something was definitely not quite right. Jack could almost hear it, like a high pitched whine that wasn't really a sound, and which made her back teeth feel funny. A current seemed to run between her eyes, through her optic nerve, back into her brain. It was uncomfortable, but didn't seem to be any worse than that.

And Jack had worked through varying degrees of uncomfortable for most of her life.

"I'm fine," she repeated, flaring gently. The discomfort didn't get worse, which suggested a superficial problem with the interface, not the wiring itself. That was good: if she needed to go into the shop—stars, she hoped not!—then it would be an easy fix, since they wouldn't have to go digging and poking around in places doctors and doctors' tools didn't belong.

She proceeded to demonstrate how _fine_ she was by knocking over the YMIR mech Shepard and her band were hammering on. As it took a step, her _push_ hit the thing, which overbalanced, toppled, then crashed to the ground from where the pilot struggled to get it back on its feet.

YMIR mechs were tough, but like turtles, they didn't like being on their backs. It wasn't a good position for them.

"Okay, you're fine," Vega agreed cheerfully.

In _so_ many ways, Jack thought with smug self-satisfaction as she caught one particularly sneaky bastard in a blue corona and _squeezed_ until _something_ gave way. She didn't like working at a distance, but she wasn't going to wander too far from the kids.

Even with the discomfort of a damaged interface, it was amazing to be amped up and dangerous again. She'd hated every second of feeling less than all-powerful, less than self-sufficient, and all the more because it was Cerberus seeing her in a position of being _less_.

No more. In fact, she meant to ensure that they didn't remember seeing her as _less_ for as much of their lives as remained, to drive out the idea that she had ever been anything but their overmatch before putting them out of her misery.

The cheers and approval of the kids—Shepard's little pep talk must really have helped dehumanize those Cerberus bastards—seemed to accent the situation.

And Shepard's tech, the Edi apparently backing up Kahlee, seemed to be really damn good at her job. Having seized control of emergency life support and safety systems, she'd been locking down as many of Cerberus' reinforcements as possible, or funneling their goons into range of the strike team, or the students. Regardless, it was a steady dribble of asshats to hang from the ceiling fans.


	166. Exit

EDI got up from her chair. "We should go, Director Sanders. Shepard and her fire team, and Jack and the students, should be arriving at the shuttle bay shortly."

" _And we're all ready here,_ " Jeff announced. " _Give the word._ "

"Excellent. Thank you, Jeff." 

" _EDI, how're things looking?_ " Shepard's voice demanded.

"The Normandy is ready to pull the cruiser out of position. Director Sanders and I are heading for the shuttle bay and should be there in moments. I have established a remote linkup with the station's systems," EDI answered smoothly. "Station-side hostiles have all been sequestered."

" _And that thing for Allers we talked about?_ "

EDI could admit to being (shorthand: disappointed) at not having had the opportunity to take any combat footage herself. However, the security camera network across Grissom station was very good, and she hoped that Allers would be able to do something with the footage pulled.

"While I have had very little opportunity to shoot any of my own, I have assembled a reasonable pool of footage." (Approximation: smugness) laced her tone.

" _Sorry about that. Maybe next time._ "

EDI shrugged, quite in agreement.

" _How locked down are those Cerberus drones?_ " Shepard asked, a frown audible in her tone.

"They will get nowhere without my permission," EDI answered. "Is something wrong?"

" _No_ ," Garrus broke in. " _She just wants to shoot this mech's rockets at those scumbags. You don't need depth perception when you've got a targeting lock._ "

"If you are in a bloodthirsty mood, I am certain I can arrange something."

Kahlee grinned, but said nothing. Her behavior, as far as being partnered with an entity of the synthetic persuasion went, had been moderate. Not too friendly, but not openly unnerved or mistrustful.

" _Hell, yeah! What are you gonna do otherwise, Hero? Leave their asses all comfy-like on the station?_ " Jack's voice demanded. " _F—bag that!_ "

" _That's a second for trying this thing out,_ " Shepard announced, pleased and enthused. " _EDI, can you start funneling the holdouts into the next big room? Put me on the far side and this walking fortress is going to ruin someone's day._ "

" _No way! You're driving one of those YMIRs?_ " Vega protested.

" _Gonna do more than drive it, Tank,_ " Shepard responded.

" _That's lame. Lame and messed up. When do I get to do cool shit like that?_ " Vega's voice dropped conspicuously low—whether so the students wouldn't hear him arguing or wouldn't think they weren't as important as getting to work with heavy hardware, EDI wasn't sure.

EDI tweaked her remote feed, zeroing in as Shepard—now accompanied by the thunk-thunk steps of the mech—led the way into the next room. She kept listing to one side.

" _Sooner or later, your turn'll come up,_ " Shepard answered. " _I hate these things. Let's see if that gets better, huh?_ " The second remark seemed to be more for herself than anyone else.

It wasn't difficult to hack into Cerberus' communications network. Nor was it difficult, using the voice prints from the propaganda she'd been blocking, to impersonate whatever legitimate authority remained.

"I have released several units and am funneling them in your direction. They currently believe their superiors have counteracted my work, and that their orders to kill you come from some legitimate authority," EDI announced. "Enjoy."

Shepard laughed.

" _Dibs on the next one,_ " Garrus declared idly, slapping the mech nonchalantly.

" _I didn't realize these things were so damn_ _slow_ _._ "

Perspective was everything, EDI noted.

" _Shepard, you must cease listing like that. You are going to hang up,_ " Javik observed shortly.

She was, too. Every few steps, she had to take one additional step to correct her course.

" _I know, I know. Everyone wants to drive the big mech. Garrus has dibs, though, so…_ "

" _Third dibs!_ " Vega broke in. " _Shepard? We made it to the shuttles. The kids are all loaded up, and I think Jack wants to fall back and play with you._ "

" _Know what's scarier than your hero-in-a-mech, soldier?_ " Jack asked pertly.

"… _do I_ _want_ _to know?_ "

" _Me._ "

In the background came cheers and approval from the students.

"' _Cuz she's the psychotic biotic!_ "

" _I will_ _destroy_ _you!_ "

" _You couldn't destroy wet tissue paper, Rodriguez,_ " Jack tossed back easily.

" _But I'm not_ _shooting_ _at wet tissue paper._ _Am_ _I, ma'am?_ " A touch of smugness suggested Rodriguez had made good use of her borrowed handgun. Enough to make up for her lack of amp.

" _Nice comeback,_ " Vega grinned.

" _You know, I really think I hate this thing,_ " Shepard mused. " _It's slow and clumsy._ "

" _Could be the operator,_ " Garrus observed innocently.

The booming sound of heavy rockets and mech-fire suddenly ceased to be background noise on the radio, becoming a real noise as EDI and Kahlee approached the shuttle bay.

Kahlee exhaled as they passed into the bay, finding the students already loaded into the shuttle, but crowding the wall of Vega, Liara and Jack in order to look out the heavy windows into the shooting gallery Shepard, the YMIR mech, and the rest of the fire team had set up.

"Shepard, the students are all accounted for and loaded on the shuttle. Jeff is waiting for your signal to pull the cruiser out of place," EDI announced as she and Kahlee climbed into the cockpit, EDI taking the copilot's position.

" _Great! Pick a rendezvous point and we'll let the Normandy carry this shuttle home!_ " Shepard answered.

A moment later, Javik, followed by Garrus and Shepard—grinning as if waiting for a punchline—trotted into the hangar. They climbed into the shuttle.

EDI sealed the room a moment before the YMIR mech exploded spectacularly, clearly product of planted charges, peppering any remaining Cerberus troopers with shrapnel.

"How'd we do, EDI?" Shepard asked.

EDI blinked, then released the remote connection to the station's systems. "We have a one hundred percent enemy casualty rate. Per Javik's repeated preference, I have just opened all the station's airlocks."

A silence, as if everyone who knew him turned to see how Javik would take 'the machine' taking his preferences into account.


	167. Pall

Rain pelted from the nighttime sky, the darkness somehow even thicker around the camp as a result of the rigorous light discipline. "Anybody seen Forbes, yet?" Anderson asked, rubbing his eyes wearily.

Mirrenov and Patches shook their heads slowly.

Feeling mud spatter on his face, Anderson began picking it off.

"Comm equipment's up," Mirrenov said simply.

Patches, the man with the most medical training in the group, shrugged. When one was on the run from Reapers, people bled out. They succumbed to their wounds.

Patches was burning out, Anderson thought, trying to stifle the bleakness radiating from Patches. Burning out, and burning out hard. He glanced at Patches' second, a nurse in a previous life. She seemed to be holding up okay.

He kept waiting for Shepard to make contact so she could let Alenko know his mother was alive. An overnight stop at the apparently abandoned farmhouse almost became an altercation. When Anderson and his motley unit moved on, Jia accompanied them.

It was the first time the question of 'what if extra hands means kids?' came up. 'Kids' were the main reason the rest of the Alenko clan—those who hadn't already reported for duty at one of the rallying points—stayed. Kids cried. They freaked out. They got bored and wandered off. They could end up being a big old liability.

Anderson didn't relish passing on that both Peter Alenko and Dresden Forbes were missing in action—Peter because no contact, Forbes because…no one knew what had happened to him. But at least with Alenko, there was good news to temper the 'we don't really know' which so often was a nice way of saying 'probably dead.' Had the Reapers been a conventional enemy it wouldn't have been quite as dark an outlook. But they were Reapers for a reason, and Anderson found himself appreciating anew just what that _meant_ from a boots-on-the-ground perspective.

He shook his head, wondering how—with her unique perspective on the matter—Shepard hadn't gone crazy, knowing the Reapers were coming and _what that meant_ from her Prothean-frazzled beacon-induced recall. He felt sure he would have.

A soft flurry of noise and Jia disappeared from the tent. She was back a few moments later with several cups of hot water, which she wordlessly distributed to the people in the tent.

Comms specialist.

Doctor.

Team leads.

In short, the command cadre…minus three. He could only hope that Gillis' team hadn't died with her. The official headcount still hadn't come through.

From various pockets came leftover hot drink components from ration packs. The watery hot chocolate was at once too sweet and too bland, as if it liked to be clear it was _just_ flavored hot water.

This wasn't Anderson's first time dependent on ration mixes if he wanted a hot drink. The heat itself was what soothed. The watery chocolate flavor made it palatable. The mix itself was probably nutrient enriched, a little pick me up for guys in the field.

The Reapers were focusing on metropolitan areas, but they had harassment squads scattered everywhere. Anderson's group, during the day's travel, had hit a bad chance and been ambushed. The ambush turned into a route—screams and shouts echoed in the old soldier's mind—with more Reapers periodically reinforcing the original squad.

They weren't just husks, either: weird turian-looking things that seemed to function like NCOs, the cannibals that lived up to their name in the most grotesque way possible, a couple heavies no one really knew what to call except 'big brutes.' But it was mostly husks.

Somehow, finally, the group shook off the Reapers. Maybe the forces got recalled for something else. Maybe splitting up and regrouping had worked.

"Sir?" the voice was soft, impossible to tell if it belonged to a girl or a boy, and prefaced a hand—just the hand—appearing through the tent's flap with a datapad in it. "Head count, sir. Gillis' group made contact and the rest of Forbes' guys… they're here."

"And Forbes?" Anderson asked heavily, already knowing the answer. The hot chocolate suddenly had a bitter aftertaste, and a sharpness that stung the edges of his tongue.

"Dead, sir. His number two said she saw his chest explode."

Anderson sighed heavily, taking the datapad. "Thank you."

No answer, except a stifled sniffle that probably had nothing to do with the bad weather and everything to do with a name on the list.

"It'll be a short night," Anderson announced. "We're going to want to move on—"

The sound of hurried feet. This time, the same hand that offered the datapad flung the door open. The girl, seeming to swim in her coat, was red-faced and red-eyed.

She had somebodyon that damn list.

"Sir? QEC contact: it's the _Normandy_. Captain Shepard wants to speak to you," she declared.

Anderson nodded, wondering how long Shepard had been trying to get through.

Anderson drained his cup of chocolate, which suddenly seemed absolutely tasteless, and rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The last bit was always gritty; those crystals at the bottom never _quite_ dissolved.

"I'll take it. Get everyone bedded down, and organize a watch rotation. Patches, I'd turn in early if I were you. Get as good a night as you can—you're starting to show some wear and tear."

"I'll think about it," Patches answered with a shrug.

Well, he didn't blame the man for resisting the idea. Nightmares were a common occurrence, and the usual remedies weren't feasible in an existence where not being able to wake up fully because shit hit the fan was a real problem.

Anderson withdrew from the command tent, followed the red-faced soldier to the communications tent. He nearly tripped over the cable hooking the QEC up to its generator.

" _Watch your step,_ " Shepard drawled.

With a slender gash running along the side of Shepard's face, there was only one thing to say to this advice. "Uh-huh. Been running with scissors, have we?"


	168. Rude Awakening

Oriana Cartier knew something was wrong. Horrible wrong. Nightmarishly wrong. Her mouth felt dry and putrid, her head pounded almost as hard as her heart—which seemed to think it was her alarm clock—her stomach felt leaden and heavy. Her body didn't feel in much better condition.

She managed to crack her eyes. Even in the darkness, she knew this wasn't her room. Cold fear gripped her, and the only reason she didn't scream was because she still had all her clothes on and when she inched out questing fingers she found she was alone.

She'd take what she could get. But she'd been at home, for crying out loud! This sort of thing didn't happen to people at home, minding their own business…did it?

Apparently so, she thought flatly.

The sheer unaccountability of it supplied her with logical explanations…aside from some freakish creeper she'd met on campus who had managed to follow her home when she returned there once the Reapers hit and campus closed.

For most of her life, Oriana had been an only child. Nine or so months ago, she'd learned her past wasn't quite what she thought it was. She wasn't an only child, nor was she the child of the parents she loved so much. Her parents didn't know anything about the previously estranged older sister (Miranda), or about Henry Lawson (consummate egomaniac, according to Miranda), or about the not-so-shadowy human supremacist group Cerberus (about whom Miranda seemed less than pleased).

So given what she knew, it seemed possible that Cerberus (as an action against Miranda for defecting) or Henry Lawson (because he was a creep who just didn't quit) had located her, then kidnapped her. Supposedly, it wouldn't be the first time Henry Lawson had tried…but from what Oriana pieced together about the little Miranda shared of Cerberus…it was entirely possible those two were in cahoots.

Lawson wanted his investment. Cerberus wanted action against Miranda. Lawson was rich, apparently used to be on good terms with Cerberus before Miranda ran away and joined them. now, Miranda wasn't with them, and Lawson was willing to be friendly again. The logic followed.

Oriana shivered, then went still as a door hissed open. A light step entered the room. The lights came up to a gentle nightlight glow. Through slitted eyes, Oriana watched a woman's figure putter about, pouring a glass of water from a pitcher, then approach the foot of the bed.

Oriana closed her eyes.

"Miss?"

Oriana lay still.

"Miss? The drug was timed. You should be at least able to open your eyes."

Damn. Oriana opened her eyes. "Who are you?"

"Nurse Kensington," the woman answered. "You'll likely feel a little dehydrated. This should help." She proffered the water glass, which Oriana eyed askance as she sat up.

"Where am I?"

"Quite safe," the nurse answered. "You're at Sanctuary."

"Sanctuary?" Oriana repeated.

"The water really will help. I promise, it's just water."

"You drink first, then," Oriana frowned.

Nurse Kensington, with a shrug, took a sip.

"Another."

With the air of humoring a querulous child, the nurse obeyed, then topped off the glass from the pitcher. After several moments, Oriana took the cup and drained it.

The nurse refilled it.

Oriana drained that one too. The third cup, she sipped.

"There's a bathroom attached to your quarters," the nurse began.

"Why am I here?"

The nurse looked surprised. "To keep you safe, of course. Now, your father will want to speak with you as soon as you're up and moving around. Wouldn't you like to freshen up first?"

"My father." Not her real father, Ted. Her biological father, Henry.

A sense of relief washed over her. Miranda was smart. If she, Oriana, worked out as much as she had in her stodgy condition, there was no way Miranda would fail to figure out what had happened. If she couldn't contrive to rescue herself, Miranda would eventually kick in the door. All she had to do was stay alive and wait for an opportunity…or a rescue.

"Of course, dear." The nurse smiled encouragingly, as if dealing with someone who might or might not be sitting on (or have incoming) a lot of trauma.

The trauma was being drugged, kidnapped, and brought to some strange place without explanation. So far, everything Miranda ever said about Henry Lawson seemed supported. Being his captive could be unpleasant…but if Miranda kept being right, she was safe for the moment. He wouldn't want to damage her.

Did he know she and Miranda had been in contact? If not, could she try to gain his confidence?

"You really oughtn't keep him waiting. He's a very busy gentleman."

Somehow, Oriana thought as she retreated to the privacy of the bathroom, she suspected this nurse was just that: a nurse-companion who really had no idea what was going on.

Oriana found herself shaking with nerves and adrenaline. She had to keep cool. She had to be patient. She needed to know what was happening. She needed to discover where she was. She needed to find out what Sanctuary was. Henry Lawson's private bolthole? He was supposed to be fabulously wealthy, wealthy enough to buy tailor-made daughters.

When she came out of the bathroom, she found that the nurse had tidied the rumpled bedclothes, and was unpacking a suitcase Oriana hadn't noticed, which was full of her own clothes. "Where are my parents?" she asked coldly.

The nurse's expression took on tones of deep sympathy. Either she was a really good actress, or was just plain ignorant of the mess surrounding her. "Why, they're being admitted to Sanctuary themselves. It's the least Mr. Lawson can do. He's probably explaining things to them, now."

"When can I see them?"

"I daresay you'd like a change of clothes," the nurse deflected without affectation. "You certainly can't go to supper in your pajamas."

She sounded like someone pitying Oriana, pitying the Cartiers—innocent dupes in a kidnapping plot—and pitying poor Mr. Lawson, distraught estranged father.


	169. Light

He couldn't tell Shepard about Forbes. Alenko wasn't there to tell about Jia. So Anderson, exhausted and feeling a little guilty, said nothing about either. Besides, there was a lot on Shepard's mind: namely letting _him_ know someone _he_ cared about was alive. That most of the kids were safe. He didn't miss the ugly shadow that crossed her features as she spoke. They were kids. Losing even one would leave her grimacing at the effectiveness of the mission.

"How is she?" Anderson asked, not casually enough for Shepard to miss that his interest was personal rather than professional. Luckily, Shepard wasn't a chatty woman when it came to other people's business.

A half-smile played on her mouth. " _Shepard signing off. All right. Business concluded: you can come in, now._ " She stopped long enough to wink at Anderson before stepping out of the terminal's capture range.

Anderson's breath stopped, his heart stopped, he swallowed convulsively. Into the terminal's capture range stepped a whole, healthy, hesitantly smiling Kahlee Sanders.

"Kahlee…" It was like twenty years of Christmas and birthday presents tied in a bundle and dropped in his lap.

" _Hello, David._ " Her smile, full of hesitant relief, was glorious.

"I didn't realize Shepard had your crew actually on the _Normandy_." Of course, in retrospect, it made perfect sense. Shepard wouldn't trust Cerberus not to try something funny if she turned her for one second. She would make it her personal mission to make sure the kids ended up somewhere safe—the Citadel, most likely.

" _She put her foot down that the only way we'd get anywhere was on the_ Normandy _: we were in a Cerberus shuttle. Most places would have shot us down on sight. To tell the truth, I hadn't thought about that…_ "

"Little details get lost when bullets are flying," Anderson nodded. "Shepard's got a personal interest in the kids at Grissom."

Kahlee nodded. " _As I understand it, one of them was sent there after she steamrolled a Cerberus cell. She seems like the sort that would take this attack very personally."_

"She's trained that way." He was sure a person could have cut fingers on Shepard's close-to-ruthless efficiency. He hadn't known about the student she'd sent there…or had she mentioned it in their hours-long talks before this war started, and he'd simply forgotten?

But forget about Shepard. He didn't know how much time he had, and he didn't plan to waste it. "It's good to see you, Kahlee." Anderson's face, lined with weariness and with its planes harshened by grim reality eased into the first smile he'd worn in…a very long time. He couldn't articulate how good it was to see a loved one far, far away from the devastation on Earth, temporarily out of reach of it. It didn't make the situation any easier, but it lightened the darkness a little bit.

" _I'm glad you're still alive_." For a moment it looked as though she might ask one of the clichéd questions, but she seemed to think better of it. Or maybe Shepard had counseled her not to bring such a grim subject as Anderson's reality into these few minutes of stolen time.

Bless Shepard, if this was the case. Kahlee knew things were bad. She really didn't need to know more than that.

"How are the kids?" Anderson finally asked, when it became apparent Kahlee was still stalled on questions not to ask.

" _They're good, ready to sail in as soon as they can. The technical students will stay with me. The biotics are…in a holding pattern. There's some division on how best to apply them. But they're ready to go as soon as they can. They're chomping on the bit to get involved_."

That meant Shepard had done her job further, managed to put up certain psychological barriers for the kids so they wouldn't think about the Cerberus troops as people. It made things more difficult if you had to think about enemy soldiers as people, because then they had families, reasons for doing what they did. He hoped that was the case. In some ways it was easier to fight Reaper ground troops: there was nothing of the sapient left in them. They were just hydraulic lines and bio-plaster, space zombies in their most basic form.

Kahlee tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. " _Did I tell you it was good to see you in one piece?_ " she asked with a chuckle that indicated she knew very well that she already had.

"Did I tell you you look…good? You look good, Kahlee." There, that was closer to what he wanted to say, and more than he probably had before. It was worth the momentary uncertainty when she blushed.

" _Thank you, David_." She looked as though she was going to ask something, but visibly pushed the question away.

He knew the general tone of it. "Things are rough," he admitted. Then, he was guilty of a small untruth. No one could have blamed him for it. "But we'll come through, yet. I've got that feeling."

Kahlee smiled ruefully. " _I know enough to trust your feelings…you saw right through me, didn't you?_ "

"Yeah, I did." Clearly Shepard _had_ cautioned Kahlee. No serviceman wanted to tell loved ones about the harsh realities, the constant dangers to which they were exposed.

"Sir!" Anderson turned to see one of his men in the doorway. "Sir, we need you. Alpha Company's gone dark."

Anderson nodded, turned back to Kahlee. "Sorry, Kahlee, but duty calls." He was careful to keep his voice calm, as though there was nothing seriously the matter. Ship time generally corresponded with Earth time, so he continued, "Sleep tight."

Then, without waiting, he severed the connection, rearranged his own poncho, and hurried from the communications tent to monitoring. "Where were they?"

"Here," one of the men pulled up a map, pointed to the company's last position. "All at once, just…bam. Gone."

Damn. Why was it that, after seeing Kahlee, everything here suddenly seemed so much darker?


	170. Groundwork

Henry Lawson knew that patience was a virtue. In fact, he'd gone out of his way to cultivate it over the course of his lifetime, and it had always brought about returns. Not necessarily the _desired_ returns, certainly not always _immediate_ ones (that being the nature of patience), but sooner or later, patience and planning won out.

In this case, patience and some preemptive action had netted a way to bring back his investment, to remove people who might provide information to certain troublesome persons, and to inaugurate Sanctuary's cover. The facility was ready, though word about this 'safe haven' hadn't yet been released to the wider galaxy.

The Cartiers—tucked in safely for the time being—were easy. Miranda had gone out of her way to ensure Oriana's family didn't know beans about anything but what _normal people_ knew about. Even if Miranda had decided to make contact, to connect with Oriana instead of 'protecting her' with distance, Oriana was unlikely to say anything to the Cartiers about whatever Miranda's carried tales were, for the sake of not unnerving them.

Those two had certainly inherited his spirit of independence. Miranda, a little too well.

So when he approached the Cartiers months ago, they hadn't known they needed to be careful. Hadn't known enough to spot the white lies in the carefully fabricated story he'd concocted. Oh, they were shocked and shaken, but no more than any _normal people_ would be at discovering that Oriana's birth mother had tried to get at him by kidnapping Oriana and planting her with a different family, out of his reach, all out of spite.

And if there was another virtue Henry Lawson had cultivated over his lifetime, it was charisma. In this case, it netted him sympathy. It netted him silence: no one wanted to upset Oriana, but _normal people_ could hardly be expected not to feel some sympathy for his position. It netted him insight: he had no idea whether Miranda had begun poisoning Oriana against him, but it didn't matter. He'd pretend she hadn't, while all the while assume she had.

So while the Cartiers didn't know _how_ Oriana got to the facility—and it was a _nice_ facility—they'd been allowed to see her sound asleep and apparently untroubled before he took them to the showroom living quarters. They could stay there for a time: at the very least, if Miranda had poisoned Oriana's mind, he could use the safety of the adoptive parents as collateral to ensure good behavior.

Eventually, they'd have to go. But, right now, it was useful to have them speaking well of him in case of Miranda's forked-tongued hissing. Right now, the Cartiers were enjoying Sanctuary as his guests. Concern for her family was the best he could do for an estranged daughter he'd been so desperate to find.

 _Normal people_ bought into that sort of cock-and-bull story. That they bought into it so easily left him grimacing internally, even as his mouth smiled.

As he strolled through the facility, Henry couldn't help marveling at the perverse irony. He'd supported Cerberus for a long time. Then he'd quit them. Now, here he was, actually involved. Apparently Miranda couldn't help burning beneficial bridges, first with him, then with Cerberus. Now, she was short on powerful allies. The motley rabble making up 'her contacts' was probably in complete disarray with the Reapers everywhere.

Henry shivered at the thought. Reapers were grotesque. He had several samples already: husks, cannibals, marauders, even a brute or two, and even more in his morgue, on ice, ready for invasive study or morbid curiosity.

Grotesque, but elegant in their design. Purpose-built troopers, but with so much more efficiency than purpose-building usually allowed. Witness Cerberus' working models. Slightly more intelligent than husks, but still ruinously expensive to produce.

Well, Sanctuary should help with that.

His omnitool chirped that he had a message coming in. "Yes?"

" _Mr. Lawson? It's Nurse Kensington. Ms. Cartier is awake._ "

"I'll be there shortly."

"' _Shortly' should give her plenty of time to freshen up, sir,_ " the nurse agreed amiably, before severing the link.

Kensington was a useful person to have about the place. Without any Cerberus ties, without any knowledge of the situation except what he'd told her (which won her sympathy), she was the perfect spy. She probably wouldn't even realize she was being used as one.

A little doting, a little maternal, she would either provide good company for Oriana, or give Oriana something to worry about that would distract her from escape attempts or needless acting out.

Being under the eye of a watcher was tiring. Being under the eye of a watcher and trying to fabricate an escape or trouble without tipping off watcher—and the watcher's handler—was exhausting. It took time to get used to the exhausting nature of acting discretely while under scrutiny.

Preparing for every outcome was something patience allowed.

And it behooved him to be patient, because he'd paid to craft _intelligent_ progeny. Intelligent enough, say, to feign ignorance in hopes of getting him to let down his guard and make foolish mistakes. If only Miranda had been intelligent enough to recognize a good thing when she had it.

Henry stopped walking, then opened a link to Kensington's omnitool.

" _Yes, Mr. Lawson?_ "

"I've changed my mind. I'll see her at dinner. Eighteen hundred. Make sure she's ready." A family dinner, the first meeting buffered by people she trusted. She could see that her adoptive parents were fine, for the moment. They could help plead his case. Then a tour of the facility's showroom-side. He liked being thought of as a philanthropist. No need for anyone to see the other half of the facility."

" _Of course, sir_. _I'm sure she'll appreciate being able to sleep off those nasty sedatives._ "

He ignored the jab as he severed the link, continuing into the deeper reaches of the facility. Nurse Kensington hadn't approved the use of timed sedatives, but what was done was done.


	171. Play

"EDI, how are the kids settling in?" It worried Shepard, but she was at a loss on how to help them. Her own teenage trauma, and memories of the handling thereof, were not particularly helpful. Kahlee was adamant: she, Shepard, should worry about her war, and she, Kahlee, would worry about 'her kids.'

And, Shepard hoped, keep Jack from ripping out a bulkhead to vent her anger at 'those Cerberus assholes.'

" _They are fine, Shepard. I also have a message from Lt. Vega_."

"Oh?"

" _He says if you heard any loud bangs, thuds, or ominous creaking, that it was all okay. He will pay for the breakages_."

"Breakages?" Shepard demanded, alarmed.

" _I_ _think_ _he is playing basketball. But if that is what he is doing, he is not playing by any evolution of the rules that I can access_."

House rules. Nothing like house rules. And, somehow, it didn't surprise her to hear that Vega had induced the kids to participate in this very simple, energy-expending, highly distracting game.

Shepard turned around and headed down to the cargo bay. Sure enough, when she arrived, the game was in full swing—though, as EDI indicated, there didn't seem to be any rules except 'run around, try to catch the ball, and pick your team as you go.'

It was a lot like combat, and she wasn't sure whether that was Vega's intention or not. At the very least, the kids were distracted, whether they played or, like David and one or two of the others, sat on the sidelines to watch. They were all one hundred percent distracted, which was a real gift. You'd think it was a field trip and not an evacuation. They smiled, they laughed, bantered with one another or with him, focused and engaged.

"Hey, Shepard!" Vega called.

Shepard reflexively caught the ball he threw to her—a ball thrown to keep Jack from coming out of his blind spot to take it from him. She looked chagrined, and sneered something Shepard couldn't hear, but which made Vega laugh.

Even if one knew nothing about basketball coming into the service, anyone serving on a ship large enough to have a rec-area and smaller than a dreadnaught learned to play this bizarre variant of it. Shepard was no exception. Cardio was good for spacers.

"You in?" Vega demanded, the action lulling.

"Me? Oh, no, no not me." She tossed the ball back.

Jack leered at her, "Don't…wuss…out, Shepard."

Shepard snorted amusement (she wasn't the only one amused by Jack's censored language).

"Yeah, laugh it up," Jack retorted, unoffended.

"Come on!" one or two of the students chipped in, faces flushed, the nightmares of Grissom Station safely pushed away for the time being.

It was hard to say 'no' to the bright eyes of distracted youth.

Vega, with a wicked grin, began the traditional chant used to hassle people into playing. He did it quietly, but the cry was nevertheless taken up: "She-pard, She-pard, She-pard!"

"Come on, I'm _old_!" Shepard protested, remembering hearing similar excuses from other parties over the years. She never expected to hear them coming from herself, and she smiled ruefully as she fingered the orange, rough-surfaced ball.

"More like you got your ass handed back to you," Jack put in. "Feeling a little tender, Hero?"

"Anderson played!" One of the students pointed out.

"And _he_ said he was old and _fat_ ," another pointed out.

Shepard chuckled at this: it was a popular litany, or variation on a litany, used by aging servicemen. She was sure Jack's egging on had less to do with any interest in whether she, Shepard, joined the game, and more to do with getting the game going again.

"Blind on the left side," came another voice.

"Bad knee!"

"Bad _hip_!"

"He had _back_ problems."

By now it sounded like an argument, as though to decide which giving-out body part would make her most likely to join in, to prove she didn't share the affliction of the aged N7.

"The ayes have it," Vega shrugged, tossing the ball back to Shepard.

"So can we get back to the business of me busting your head over this ball?" Jack asked Vega.

"I'm going to kill you, Vega. I'm going to kill you and throw your body in the closest gas giant," Shepard said, the very image of a scholastic. "I suck at this. Suck and _fail_." But she found herself warming to the idea. It beat brooding in her office or trying to get ahold of whoever was queuing for her attention…

"Ph. So does _Prangley_ ," one of the girls pointed out, giving the youth a scathing look.

Pangley pursed his lips, but didn't deny it.

"All right, all right. I lose. I'm in."

"About time. Get your ass in here and give the jackass the ball back."

"I think she likes me," Vega chuckled impishly when Shepard shoved the ball at him.

"Vega, that's what we call a ' _fatal_ attraction' and I urge you to just walk away," Shepard advised mildly.

"Come on, no one could ever replace _you_ , Lola," he responded in a teasing undertone.

It was the last word either of them had to say on the matter, for the game began fiercely and almost without warning.

The closest thing to describe the 'team' dynamic for this house-rules hodgepodge of a sport was the 'cutthroat' variant of racquetball: every man for himself, but sometimes two might gang up on the third player for a little while to close a point lead.

Shepard found it surprisingly easy to push aside her own concerns, fears, and difficulties in the flurry of motion and action: Jack had speed and viciousness (which she was inclined to use against Shepard or Vega, but less so with the students), Vega was a powerhouse…and there were just so many, _many_ kids at play.

It was good for them to be distracted, Shepard found herself thinking, and she was glad to be able to add to that distraction.


	172. Covers

Oriana Cartier sat at the foot of the long table, her parents side-by-side between her and the man occupying the head of the table: Henry Lawson.

It was eerie how alike Miranda and Henry looked. It would probably be eerier when she went back to her room and looked into her bathroom mirror. It was clear her parents had no idea how tenuous their position was.

And she didn't trust that smile of the benign philanthropist. If she hadn't known what kind of weirdo Henry was, she might have actually believed in the casual pleasantness. It was hard to see the ice behind his eyes. This was someone who was used to manipulating people, who could hide behind painted shutters so no one ever saw the cold core unless he let them.

She shifted where she sat. The food ought to have been good, but Oriana found herself unable to do more than pick at it as Ted and Henry conversed.

Miranda's version of events was that Henry Lawson wanted to create a dynasty, and he'd started that dynasty with his own genetic material…and then altered it with 'additional desirable traits' to create 'perfect' humans. Miranda…then Oriana as a fallback.

Oriana's concern kept coming back to 'what now?' and 'how does he expect to influence a third generation?' The answers she came to were unpleasant, leaving her cold and nauseous. She'd always hated movies with 'human incubator' plots…now she _really_ hated them.

"Ori?" Leah asked, leaning over to put a gentle hand on her.

"Did you know he drugged and kidnapped me to get me here?" she asked flatly, glaring up the table at Henry.

Ted stopped mid-word as Leah's eyes grew wider.

"Yeah," Oriana punctuated the silence.

Henry looked embarrassed—she doubted it was more than skin-deep. "Perhaps my people misunderstood my actual instructions…" he frowned.

Oriana did not attempt to stifle her snort of disbelief.

"…I didn't think you'd simply believe me, or my intentions."

Oriana looked at her plate. "And what _are_ those intentions, Mr. Lawson?" she asked simply. Better to play dumb, pretend she didn't know anything. At the very least, sulkiness would be something expected from someone in her position. She didn't need to feign much as long as she could rely on a disgruntled attitude being 'normally expected.'

He had her parents. From what she knew, he wasn't afraid to play hardball if he thought it necessary. Their safety would be a powerful lever if he ever thought he needed one. And having them here deprived Miranda of the opportunity to talk to them. They couldn't raise a fuss over Oriana's disappearance.

"I simply wanted to see you safe," he answered graciously.

"By drugging me and kidnapping me. Funny definition of 'safe' you have there."

"My people acted too zealously. They will be corrected," Henry began, more to appease the expressions on the Cartiers' faces than to excuse himself to her.

Smart. He had to suspect she and Miranda talked. He'd be stupid if he didn't.

She doubted he could ever fully excuse 'drugging and kidnapping,' no matter how good his reasons or his supposed motives. Not to her parents, anyway. At least that would give them a little doubt, keep them from trusting this tool.

"—hence Nurse Kensington's presence."

That old duck. Oriana didn't consider herself one of the galaxy's great physiognomists, but she felt certain that the hen-like old woman didn't know beans about anything compromising. Nothing that could accidentally slip. She was simply there to _watch_ and _report back_. A spy who, in all probability, didn't feel like she was spying. Safe to suppose anything Kensington saw or heard would make its way back to Henry.

"So, what is this place, exactly?" Oriana asked into the silence that followed.

"A refugee center—or it will be," came the robust answer, "once it's quite finished. The doors _should_ open to the public in the next few weeks. You, Mr. and Mrs. Cartier are going to be Sanctuary's first residents. It's the safest place in the galaxy."

"A refugee center?" That didn't make sense at all, and some of her confusion showed in her tone. Maybe it was for the best: she didn't want to _confirm_ she knew more about him than her parents did.

A smile, as if he saw a chance to catch her attention and turn it from her morose accusations of earlier.

Oriana listened as Henry discoursed about the facility and its aims—a hidden pocket for as many people as could be stuffed into it—answering Ted's logistics questions, nodding to Leah's remark about how noble the sentiment was.

It seemed like a big, obvious place. Just getting from her room to the dining room had been a matter of several minutes' walking. This didn't seem—from the inside, at least—like a bunker or a bomb shelter. Maybe she was underground, and it just didn't seem like it. Certainly, there were no real windows, just big picture windows like one saw on space stations in apartments without a view. Right now, they showed a temperate zone twilight scene.

"How do you keep the Reapers from following the streams of refugees here?" Oriana asked, sipping her water.

"Various ways. You see, only a few people know where Sanctuary actually is—mostly our well-paid shuttle pilots. They're quite good, get themselves lost, so to speak, before heading here. So it's not a stream of people that can be easily followed. After people get here, well, if you want to hide, you can't be posting on the Extranet every five minutes. A minor inconvenience, but when you can predict what's on the Extranet without help," he shook his head.

If it meant escaping the Reapers, Oriana could see why people would tolerate being cut off from the wider galaxy. The question was why Henry wanted all these people to come here. Surely it couldn't be what he said it was, just a philanthropist trying to save a pocket-sized population?


	173. Touch Base

Shepard took a slow, deep breath as she plugged the frequency into the communications terminal. For a few moments nothing, as the connection sought to establish, then suddenly a figure coalesced. "Miranda. I hope I didn't pick a bad time?"

Somewhat to her surprise, a message from Miranda—succinct and utterly impenetrable as to what the biotic wanted—waited for Shepard when she checked her messages at the end of the day. Although not hedged in a way to excite alarm or concern, it was the first Shepard had heard from Miranda since they parted ways.

" _I could ask you the same thing._ " Miranda's eyebrows arched. " _Trying to undo all my good work?_ "

"I was recently accused of trying to get everyone involved in this war. Maybe it's an underhanded tactic to get you back," Shepard grinned.

Miranda laughed, but there was something both brittle and rusty to it. " _Is it causing you problems?_ "

"Nah, Doc took care of it. She's got a cream I'm supposed to use once we take the medigel off, if I'm worried about scars."

" _Use it._ "

"What's up, Miranda?"

Miranda considered for a moment. " _We need to talk. Face-to-face. Can you be on the Citadel in a couple of days?_ "

"I'm _en route_ to Tuchanka now, but the Citadel's my next stop. And I agree: we need to talk. Face-to-face."

Miranda's eyes narrowed. " _That sounds even more ominous when you say it._ "

"How secure is this channel?"

" _Want to know what I did last weekend?_ "

Shepard took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. On the one hand, she would prefer to do this in person. On the other… "Okay. Forget facetime. The Illusive Man. Where is he, Miranda?"

Miranda's expression didn't alter in the least. " _I'm afraid I don't know._ "

"Miranda."

" _I mean it, Shepard. I honestly have no clue where he is._ "

"He went after kids, Miranda. Grissom Academy—he sent his goons through it like drain cleaner. I respect that Cerberus was a part of your history, and that you believe in loyalty. But he went after _kids_." Shepard stopped, just before she pointed out the lengths to which Miranda had gone to protect her younger sister, first from Lawson Sr., then against Cerberus once she cut ties…

Something in Miranda's expression hardened. " _I_ _know_ _he has. Like you said: forget face-to-face. Oriana…I haven't heard from her in a while, Shepard. I'm getting nervous. If I knew where the Illusive Man was at this point, I would tell you. Or tell you where to find his corpse._ " Her mouth thinned. " _But shuttles to and from his station? They all have black box guidance systems. The coordinates only lock when you're ready to come home, and they auto erase once the course is plotted. He values his privacy. Not even his most trusted associates really know_ _where_ _he is._ "

"I'm guessing you tried at least once to figure it out?" Shepard asked.

Miranda smiled wryly, but didn't incriminate herself. " _How did your rescue go?_ "

"Not a perfect run. David Archer's okay, though. We got most of the kids out. They seem surprisingly okay."

" _You of all people should know what kids can handle,_ " Miranda nodded, expression clouding. " _I'm glad to hear they're safe._ "

"Anything I can do to help with the Oriana situation?"

" _I don't think so. But I think…_ " For a moment, Miranda seemed on the cusp of dismissing Shepard's inviting silence. " _I think my father is involved._ "

"Him _and_ the Illusive Man?"

Miranda nodded silently.

"Shit." Shepard ran a hand through her hair.

" _It's possible I'm overreacting but…all the safety measures I had around her? Everything I had in place to ensure she'd be alright? Gone dark. Just like that. With things unsettled like they are…_ " Miranda began to shake her head as she trailed off.

It was unlikely, Shepard thought, she'd discussed the matter this much with anyone. Miranda was one to carry her own burdens, wordlessly and without complaint. It warmed Shepard's heart a little to see that the trust they'd established during the Collector hunt hadn't cooled or dissipated.

"I think you should go with your guts. Can I help?"

Miranda managed a wan smile. " _If I need a door or two kicked in, I know just who to call. But you've got your hands full, and right now I'm fine._ "

"Just make sure you call, alright?" Shepard asked, frowning. "Don't mess around with these creeps."

Miranda looked startled, then managed a wry smile. " _I will._ "

"Hang on…" Shepard opened her omnitool, synched it to the communications line, and passed over several photos.

" _Morbid and disgusting, but I take your point,_ " Miranda said, wrinkling her nose as she sneered. " _You know Cerberus has Omega?_ "

"Yeah, Aria's running a club on the Citadel, now."

" _I imagine it's her nightmare. May she enjoy a nice long stay at the center of galactic civilization. I'd still like to meet up when you get to the Citadel. For…_ " Miranda stalled, even going so far as to wave a hand vaguely, as if the gesture could finish the sentence for her. Miranda was about as comfortable with sentimentality as Shepard was. Maybe even less so.

"Like old friends," Shepard finished.

" _I…suppose we are that, aren't we?_ " The openness brought on by the unusually sentimental turn of the conversation left Miranda looking much nicer, less artificially pretty than she usually was. " _I'd like that Shep—Jalissa._ "

Shepard gave Miranda a lopsided grin. Her given name didn't seem to fit her anymore, but it was oddly nice hearing it.

" _Let's meet up at Aria's place. We'll have drinks and talk. Like friends._ "

"I'd like that. I'm looking forward to it." Would she ever have imagined, Shepard wondered as Miranda signed off, a day when she actually looked forward to taking a few minutes to enjoy the biotic's company? _Especially_ with how cold and aloof Miranda was when they first met.

It was a weird galaxy. Sometimes, it was even a weird kind of good.


	174. Counsel

"Captain?"

Shepard, walking her nightly rounds, found one of the students propped up one elbow. Carefully, quietly, Shepard picked her way through the sleeping teens to the one who had called her. "Yes, Rodriguez?" It took her a moment to put a name with the face.

"I—do you have a minute?"

"Sure." Shepard beckoned her to follow, not wanting the whispered conversation to wake any of the others. She led Rodriguez to the mess deck, which was bright but almost empty. She sat down at one of the tables, Rodriguez dropping into the seat across from her, looking nervous and deeply troubled.

Shepard thought she knew what this was about. "What can I do for you, Rodriguez?"

"I-it's not something I could ask Jack…" Rodriguez chewed her lip.

"All right. She won't hear anything from me." It was all over Rodriguez's face, in the big green eyes fixed firmly on hers. "Do you ever forget it? The first time you kill someone?"

It did not surprise Shepard that no one had asked this question, just as it did not surprise her that Rodriguez did now. Jack was a bolstering presence, her very inclusion into an equation helped shore out the harsh reality during a crisis. It helped keep the sickening knowledge of having just killed another sapient—never mind what had become of that sapient—at bay.

But in the dark hours, in the quiet hours, these insidious questions chewed at the mind like rats on forgotten crumbs.

Fear of Jack's answer to a 'weak' question like the one Rodriguez had just uttered would have mixed results on her students. Shepard suspected that any answer she gave now would be filtered among the kids, quietly, and would balance out Jack's driving influence. They could take heart from an honest answer without exposing their own insecurities.

Damn, but she wished Alenko was here to field this one. "No, Rodriguez. You don't," she answered calmly. "And, fortunately, you haven't. Not yet."

Rodriguez eyes remained fixed, neither arguing that she'd certainly flattened Cerberus soldiers nor rejoicing that she hadn't killed a proper sapient. She could read the gray of the area into which Shepard was drawing her.

"I'll tell you what I was told by a woman I respect very much: shooting a fellow sapient isn't a natural act. Your mind tries to make you pay for it so you don't get to liking it too much." Shepard laced her fingers, regarding her own hands. "I was sixteen and it was kill or be killed."

Rodriguez nodded. "How-how'd you cope?"

Shepard considered this. "I don't know. I just…did. But I do know that it marked me; it made me appreciate that life isn't as cheap as some people might have you think."

"They would have turned us into those…things."

"Yes."

"So we didn't have a choice but to fight them off."

"I wouldn't call it an actual choice. No."

"So…" Rodriguez's voice dropped to a whisper. "Why don't I feel any better knowing that?"

Shepard, hesitantly, took Rodriguez's hands in her own, finding the girl's fingers terribly cold. Those chilly digits wrapped around Shepard's slightly warmer ones. "Because all you've got right now are words coming out of my mouth. You'll 'feel better'—if I can even call it that—when you come to the conclusion that you had no other choice, that you and your friends would have ended up worse than dead and been unleashed on the people you care about. Or people who were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But it has to be _your_ conclusion. It has to be _your_ conscience that reconciles itself. There's a reason a lot of soldiers don't like to talk about the first time they killed someone. It's never a pleasant experience."

'Never' might have been going a bit far, but for all the decent people Shepard knew, it was true enough. Rogers was simply a freak, and freaks like her shouldn't be counted with the general public…

"It was worst, you know, when I couldn't fight back." Rodriguez gnawed gently on her lower lip.

"That's always hard," Shepard agreed. "It takes being in a bad situation to really appreciate that it's better to go down like a pit varren than to wait like a calf for slaughter."

Rodriguez nodded. "Jack would think I'm being a wuss for asking."

Among other things, Shepard was quite certain. "Jack has a totally different range of experience than you or I do." That was true enough. EDI had filled Shepard in on why Jack seemed familiar. She felt a little uneasy over having left Jack on Purgatory, but at the time…and, looking at her now, Shepard felt upheld in wanting several more biotics on hand than she'd had at the time. Just in case anything went wrong… "I personally think that her manner with you kids, for instance, is a bit heavy-handed. However, I can't deny that it _works_. You survived; you got out of a tight spot and got your non-biotic classmates out, too."

Alenko would have appreciated 'non-biotic' as opposed to 'normal'. So did Rodriguez.

Shepard watched Rodriguez chew this over. She was sure Jack would argue her—Shepard's—approach was too soft but Shepard felt the result would speak for itself. She could see Rodriguez firming up, could see the subtle changes in the girl's posture as she adjusted her shoulders to accept a mantle of maturity most could live without.

"Thanks for the talk, Captain." Rodriguez took her hands back. She didn't look happy, but she looked a bit more at peace with herself than she had upon sitting down at the table.

"You're welcome."

Rodriguez stopped once she was on her feet, then tossed out a last question. "Will it get better?"

"A little bit every day, but you won't see it if you're looking for it. One day you'll wake up and realize how bad it _was_ and you'll feel the difference between 'now' and 'then.'"


	175. Multimedia

If Diana Allers was disappointed that she had so little combat footage from EDI's superior optical array, the sheer volume of security footage the AI secured made up for it.

She had not been able to sit down and go through what she had for longer than she expected. Apparently, some of the Grissom kids were fans of Battlespace—or just fans of hers—and things being the way they were, she was glad to put in an appearance.

But they'd all gone down for the night, which meant she was free to work uninterrupted.

Allers rolled her shoulders as she scanned the several panels of footage running concurrently before turning on her Mad Media Scientist playlist.

How many times, she mused, could (or had) Grieg's _Hall of the Mountain King_ been covered? Obviously not too many if she wasn't sick of hearing it, yet.

The question was, with all this available footage, what cant she wanted to take. That was the fun part: she could come up with half a dozen different cants and then pick and choose. Or let Shepard pick and choose.

Heck, she could _probably_ talk the CO into letting her run as many segments as she came up with for the crew and let the crew choose (or choose the order in which the segments aired). Popular vote and genuine entertainment.

Even if the security footage wasn't high resolution, it was still hilarious to watch the Cerberus troopers trying to mob the abandoned YMIR right before it exploded in their faces.

And then EDI spaced the survivors. Sometimes propaganda wars were fought with something as a music-and-montage piece released onto the Extranet. She might be a frontline reporter, but she understood how her role functioned as a lever, a pry bar, WD-40 or duct tape.

"If it moves and shouldn't, duct tape. If it doesn't move and should, WD-40," she quoted aloud. Her favorite grandmother, a dedicated do-it-yourselfer, insisted that a hefty chunk of chocolate, a coil of rope, a roll of duct tape, and a can of WD-40 would get you through almost everything the galaxy could throw at you.

Grandma Lucille hadn't been Alliance, but she'd be chomping at the bit to take a swing at these Cerberus freaks.

Allers' eyes slid to the battered backpack beside her desk. Of the 'Real Life Survival' kit Grandma Lucille gave her upon graduating high school, the backpack was the only piece that had survived. Her lucky backpack, now adorned with patches and buttons and little souvenirs that either reinforced the article or evidenced her galactic roaming.

Allers turned back to her screen. "Themes," she mused aloud, tapping her fingers in time with the peppy synthetic club beat. Something poignant and horrible (not that she meant to put any kid's dead body on anyone's screen); something hilarious, to get people laughing at the Cerberus joke; something showcasing heroic Alliance figures…she'd better make sure she had permission to put faces on the Extranet before she did it. Ooh, self-rescuing students…or students aiding their own rescue. Biotics could always use a bit of good PR.

The shape of the emotions she wanted to evoke would dictate a lot.

As she watched the snatched footage, she kept notes on a datapad, pausing every so often to record a timestamp and duration under one of the headings for segments. The more she had to work with, neatly sorted, the easier things would be later.

And she'd need to think about what _Battlespace_ actually had to say. Because, of course, that would need to come out first. She doubted anyone knew Grissom had come under attack, and no one probably would until the cat was let out of the bag.

Allers frowned at the screen of her terminal. She didn't doubt it would be a delicate topic, but she had some curiosity about Shepard's own Cerberus connections. It was weird to think she ever had them. The Captain gave the impression of holding a deep-seated grudge against the organization, holding them in the most violent contempt.

It was a question a lot of people would have, because the subject had been treated so carefully by the Alliance. Nothing more than 'claims' that then-Commander had worked with the terrorist entity. It was like the Alliance hoped that the Cerberus thing would go away…but they ought to have known better.

Allers scowled at the footage on the screen. Stuff like that didn't go away. That was the kind of skeleton in the closet that could be made to reappear by antagonistic parties, could be used to damage or cripple the one hiding it (or on whose behalf it was being hidden).

If Cerberus wanted to act against Shepard, they just needed to start talking, to enmesh or mire her in scandal because, so far, there was too much room for speculation, too many opportunities for people to ask 'what are you hiding, that you don't want to talk about it?'

It would be a touchy subject, but Shepard wasn't stupid. And Allers wasn't just digging for a story—she had no shortage of stories (even if she couldn't air all of them…yet). She had an obligation to protect Shepard from this sort of garbage, because Shepard was too busy dealing with _other_ sorts of garbage.

Allers made a mental note to bring her concerns about Cerberus capitalizing on old associations and a lack of accounting about it from the party most affected. Did Shepard drink? Would a glass or two of wine help that conversation along? Goodness knew if anyone needed a drink at the end of the day, it was probably Shepard.

Allers shook herself. First, get these segments underway. She'd worry about the whole Cerberus-Shepard thing later. One battle at a time.

Maybe if she hedged the conversation 'since we're hitting at them through PR, they might try doing the same thing back to us. We should probably block them before they start,' Shepard wouldn't clam up or shut her down.


	176. Pep Talk

"Alright," Wrex snarled to the two krogan—Raux and Griz—who would accompany him and the Shaman onto the Normandy. He had no idea how long it would take to get this Summit together, but safe to assume it wouldn't be before dinner, and his men wouldn't be back on Tuchanka in time for the new week.

Besides, they were used to female battlemasters and warlords being things of myth and legend. He didn't need Shepard taking offense at something one of those young idiots—they were good kids, but still—did. He _really_ didn't want to have to intervene if one of them tried some shit with Garrus, because of course Garrus had to be there. If he was alive. He had to be. If a rocket to the face hadn't done more than slow him down, then he was still alive and fighting the good fight. Where else could be he be but with Shepard?

"Shepard's the worst excuse for a human I ever saw. Make no mistakes—she's go the heart, lungs and livers of a krogan, and if you piss her off, I'm not sure I can save your stupid asses."

The Shaman snorted, nodding his agreement. "She's little. But she's _fierce_."

"So good rule of thumb? Don't start any shit with anyone on her ship," Wrex concluded.

"She's killed thresher maws," the Shaman put in helpfully. "She effectively destroyed Clan Weyrloc. She left Clan Gattatog leaderless."

This got a reaction from the two younger krogan, who exchanged suddenly unnerved, wary looks. It was clearly stamped on their faces: _wait, this is_ _that_ _Shepard_? At the very least, they wouldn't be tempted to try taking her measure themselves: she had a resume more than one accomplished adult krogan could be envious of.

Wrex harrumphed as he thought. If there'd been a way to extend the mantle of Clan Urdnot to Shepard when he extended it to Grunt, Wrex would have done so. Unfortunately, while accepting krogan from one clan into another wasn't a big deal—provided the necessary forms and ceremonies were met—there was no precedent for adopting an alien that way.

He'd figure something out. She needed a clan. She was too fierce, too tough to be clanless. And he liked her. She had spunk.

-J-

"Okay, a couple words before we make touchdown," Shepard declared, looking from Campbell to Westmoreland, for the time being excused from their unending watch of the war room.

The two girls stood at attention, regarding her with stifled enthusiasm. Originally, she hadn't planned to take anyone with her. This was, after all, a simple pick-up of Wrex, the Shaman, and two other krogan (apparently there for form's sake).

It was 'for form's sake' that she opted to bring a couple people with her. So she'd asked the greenest recruit on the team, and the one who (according to Joker) didn't believe the story about her and the thresher maw.

Dressed in their dress blues, with pistols, rifles, and shields, Campbell and Westmoreland almost jittered with suppressed excitement.

"Krogan like to take the measure of people, and Wrex thinks he's cute. Don't let him intimidate you; don't let him push you around. He'll make a show, but he won't actually hurt you." Shepard let her tone suggest 'because I'd kick his ass if he did.' Wrex liked to push boundaries, but he already knew where her limits were. At most, he'd smell rookies and razzle them a little. So it was best to warn and reassure them in advance. "Just dig your heels in and don't let him see you rattled."

"Yes ma'am," Campbell said, a little too hastily, because she blushed a moment later.

Shepard's mouth quirked on one side. "Don't worry, Campbell. Wrex and I go way back. He's not one of your crazy volatiles. The Shaman's pretty reasonable, too. Bit old and crusty, but so's Wrex." It was one of the things she missed about Wrex: to him, she would always be a squishy little human, no matter how tough she was or how impressive the enemies she made (and dispatched) were.

She could hear him now: ' _Of course. It helps keep you humble._ '

"Sounds like my Great-Uncle Mark," Westmoreland muttered, wrinkling her nose.

Shepard shrugged, the shuttle shuddering as it hit atmo.

"Ma'am?" Westmoreland asked uneasily.

"Yeah?"

"Did you _really_ kill a thresher maw on foot?" Westmoreland looked half surprised at her own daring in asking.

Shepard snorted, wondering how highly colorized (and edited) Joker's version of events was. "Not by myself. Three-man team, and two of us were power tripping at the time."

She made a note to herself to make sure none of those weird root nuggets made it onboard her ship. Someone, somehow, would get their hands on them and then…look out. She would like to say Wrex would never consider getting some of the crew hopped up for his own amusement…but she didn't take it for granted he wouldn't. Like she said earlier, impish krogan. He'd approved of the 'less thinking, more fighting' state those stupid roots induced.

The shuttle touched down, the dusty air of Tuchanka sweeping in when the doors opened.

Outside stood Wrex, the Shaman, and two members of Wrex's _krantt_.

"Shepard!" Wrex shook Shepard's entire arm as soon as he had her hand. "It's good to see you!" To his credit, he did take some care, considering she wasn't wearing armor.

"You too, Wrex. Sir," she added to the Shaman. She regarded the other two krogan, rigid in posture as if trying to stand up under scrutiny.

"Thought I'd bring you a little eye candy," Wrex hissed into Shepard's ear, tone conspiratorially low so no one else would hear him. "Good condition, kinda on the smart side. Young enough to learn new tricks."

Shepard's head snapped to one side as she glared at him. At least he didn't actually mention Alenko…that could be awkward. "I really hate you."

Wrex laughed loudly, clapping her—too hard—on the back.


	177. Titans

For Jesse Froeberg, the few days on the Normandy were turning into a dream trip. Sure, the whole thing on Grissom was horrible, but he did his best not to think about it unless he had to. In fact, the last few days had almost made up for how awful Grissom ended up being. He didn't admit this to anyone, feeling a little guilty at being so excited, enthused and engaged when he was missing a couple friends.

Well, 'missing' as a verb, not as a state of being: they were dead. They weren't coming back. That was awful.

But…

As it was, he'd met an AI that didn't want to kill everyone (and with whom David Archer seemed to have bonded as with no one else); a real-life and very grouchy Prothean (Prothean! Like beacons and stuff!); a turian Primarch who, in his off-duty hours, was content to share war stories with 'the kids'; a real-live N7 (who was much more approachable than one would expect from her reputation); the only turian in the galaxy who was the acknowledged second in command on an Alliance warship (also given to sharing sea stories); the gorgeous Diana Allers (who was even nicer and cleverer than she was pretty); and now the foremost of the krogan clan chiefs and Clan Urdnot's Shaman.

If this was Alliance life, he couldn't wait to sign up! Talk about seeing new places and meeting new people! He wasn't the only one a little disappointed that they weren't going to get a glimpse of Tuchanka through the open cargo bay, when Shepard took the shuttle to retrieve her krogan friends.

Because Urdnot Wrex was a name that had come up before in Mr. Vakarian's stories. Amazing stories of a krogan that broke the molds cast by krogan critics and krogan sympathizers alike.

Jesse had never seen a real-live krogan.

So he, and most of his friends, watched from the sidelines, the room silent except for the sound of Jack's chewing gum, punctuated by the occasional pop. Jack wasn't impressed by anyone or anything, which was why she sat comfortably on one of the consoles near where the shuttle pilot usually worked, her feet kicking gently as she watched.

The four krogan were massive, a couple hundred kilos each. Wrex was identifiable because of his red headplate. Process of elimination said the really old, crusty-looking guy was the Shaman. That meant the remaining two were some kind of honor guard, either for the Clan Chief or the Shaman. They made Shepard look tiny, wearing her dress blues as she was, but somehow she didn't seem _diminished_.

"I didn't know you had Class A's, Garrus," Shepard blinked, regarding Mr. Vakarian and the Primarch, both of whom had dressed up for this first meeting. It was weird to see Mr. Vakarian out of his blue armor.

"Comes standard," Mr. Vakarian answered, rolling his shoulders. "Like never fits right, standard," he added, giving the Primarch an aggrieved look, which the older man ignored.

"I think he's pretty," Wrex leered. "Like a little silver flower."

Mr. Vakarian's mandibles flicked at this. "I'll take that for the compliment it is. Flowers tough enough to survive on Tuchanka kill anything who gets close enough."

Wrex let out a bark of laughter, some of his bristling posture subsiding. "Good to see you, Garrus."

Froeberg wasn't the only one who let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"The Alliance finally start giving you impressionable kids to train up right?" Wrex asked, glancing at the assembly. "Or are you running a mobile _crèche_? Kinda looks like a female clan from here." The look he cast at Mr. Vakarian caused another twitch of mandibles, which Foreburg decided was the same as humans arching their eyebrows to someone else's cute comments.

"These are students from Grissom Academy," Shepard answered. "Some of our best and brightest. We're dropping them off on the Citadel."

"Uh-huh," Wrex answered, giving the students another look. He also dropped the subject with tactful speed. Rather, he turned to his escort. "Don't let these kids get you into any kind of shit. They look a little too squeaky clean to be legit."

This was met with muffled disapproval from the students, and a scoff from Jack…which was met with more disapproval.

"Who's the princess?" Wrex asked.

"Do we really need this guy?" Jack asked, popping her gum.

"Afraid so," Shepard answered almost complacently.

"Do we need his _shit_ , too?" Jack cracked her neck, but didn't move from her perch.

"Sooner or later, he'll point it in the right direction."

"Huh. Right," Jack frowned, knitting her fingers together as if she felt Kahlee silently urging her not to cause a diplomatic incident.

Probably harder to cause one of those with a bunch of krogan than anyone else, Froeberg mused. Posturing aside, they seemed pretty chill.

"She's one of Alenko's picks," Shepard observed to Wrex.

"No shit?" Wrex's expression was almost comical as he regarded Jack. He dropped his voice, murmuring to Shepard, "No, way. He's not interesting enough to attract someone that colorful."

"I didn't say anything about attraction," Shepard shrugged. "I just said she's one of his picks. Rock solid biotic. Don't mess with her: I need all my bulkheads intact." With that, Shepard patted Wrex's shoulder. "Welcome aboard, Sir," she nodded to the Shaman. "I'd like to introduce Primarch Victus of the Turian Hierarchy. Primarch, Clan Urdnot's Shaman."

Both the Shaman and the turian nodded. Froeberg could almost see it in little fluffy thought bubbles: ' _if you can't say something nice, keep your gob shut._ '

The silence was broken by the arrival of the reclusive (and lovely) Dr. T'Soni. "Hello, Wrex," she beamed.

"Liara. Good to see you," Wrex grinned. "Anyone else from the old crew?"

"Not yet. Still keeping my ears open, though. How's Grunt doing?"

Wrex grinned. "He's krogan, Shepard. We're not exactly fragile."

"Neither are the Reapers," came the grim rejoinder.

"He's _fine_ , Shepard. Hand-packed his homemade lunch myself."


	178. Clean Up

Admiral Oleg Petrovsky rolled his shoulders as he regarded the Illusive Man. "If I may, why Horizon?"

The Illusive Man's expression showed a thin smile that had more of deep loathing than humor in it. " _Because it's one of two places Shepard won't go without a good reason, and Virmire is, shall we say, occupied. Dr. Kramer's research with the Adjutants will be more valuable there than he is with you currently._ "

The Illusive Man had always been cautious, but Oleg could read between the lines: Captain Shepard had traction now, had the backing of more than just the Alliance. Give her one whiff of a Cerberus setup, and she'd come down on it like an anvil. Which meant it was only a matter of time before she came here, to Omega. Sooner or later, the war would bog down and she would need something to do. Which meant it was likely that Aria would enter the equation—either as the instigator or at Shepard's invitation.

He looked forward to the confrontation. Oleg's experience with N7s was limited to the late Eva Rogers and Kai Leng, the Illusive Man's new favorite executor. Both were cold, clinical, ruthless. Oleg would hazard a guess that Leng's sense of loyalty was more developed than Rogers', but he seemed to lack the gravitating pull Rogers possessed.

Shepard wasn't known for her ruthlessness, but she did possess loyalty in spades, and had a way of inspiring it in others. Quite a Venn diagram these three N7s created, when drawn out on paper.

"Of course." When the live feed cut, Oleg turned to Dr. Kramer, formerly Rogers' shipside medic.

"I look forward to the change of scenery," the doctor observed, frowning about the space that had once been the heart of Aria T'Loak's pirate haven. Gone were the dancers and the questionable beverages, replaced by a real command hub full of computers and technicians to run them.

Oleg arched his eyebrows, to which the doctor smiled. "Eva was not a likeable woman, Admiral. An excellent superior, a fine employer, but not worth grief or sorrow."

"I take it the rest of the crew will be satisfied with reassignment?" Oleg asked.

"I think most would prefer certainty to uncertainty at the moment," Dr. Kramer answered. "But I do have concerns about Morgan."

Morgan. Inwardly, Oleg's upper lip curled in distaste. Morgan was a barely-functional psychotic, a dog on Rogers' leash. Hers was the only voice Morgan really heard. Even when she delegated, she had to remind him every so often that he was _supposed_ to be listening to someone else. Oleg had the misfortune of overhearing a tantrum when Rogers went too long without checking in with Morgan. She'd cleared the matter up, as if nothing ever happened, but that didn't replace the equipment Morgan smashed or the unfortunate individuals he encountered.

To this day, Oleg was sure Rogers did it on purpose: 'I've got a time bomb sitting next to you. Don't make me late for my check-ins, or things could get messy.'

Morgan might not grieve to hear Rogers was dead, but he would certainly have a meltdown. "As do I. Recommendations?"

Despite the dangers, Morgan's previous usefulness couldn't be denied. The last time the Talons started pushing with worrisome effectiveness, Rogers had smiled pityingly at Oleg, then cheerfully invited Morgan 'for a walk.'

The Talons were still a problem, but one bloodbath later and they now chose to move _very_ carefully, scaling back the number of operations in favor of greater magnitude for those they did run. It was thanks to this 'walk' that Oleg knew the head of the serpent here was a female turian.

Dr. Kramer considered silently. "Let him be useful. Send him into the Adjutant tunnels. He'll cull the numbers before they kill him. And they _will_ kill him, eventually. Anything else would be either tricky or resource-heavy."

"You really think that will work?"

"He's not whining for Eva, yet," Dr. Kramer answered coolly. "I daresay he'll do as he's told. But I can't guarantee when he'll start wanting her to check in, so we'd better do it soon."

"I'd rather feed him to the Talons," Oleg responded, rubbing his face with one hand.

"You have containment problems with the Talons. The Adjutants are locked down."

Oleg hated to admit it, but the Talons' tactics had gone from what one might call 'traditional Omega-style warfare' to a true guerilla movement. The woman leading them knew her business.

Oleg knew—based on previously-observed patterns —that if he really wanted to draw the Talons out, all he had to do was round up a dozen or so members of the populace and order public executions. They were touchy about 'innocent civilians' getting involved. However, his orders were to secure and hold the station. Right now, the populace was cowed, preferring compliance to anything else. Right now, the populace might sympathize with the Talons, might even speak supportively…but nothing more. And if the Talons pushed too hard, forced Oleg to crack down on the civilians, they would lose this support. They knew that.

Which put them in stalemate for the moment.

"I'm sorry?" Oleg blinked, coming out of his reverie.

"I said, I'll get Morgan underway, then speak to Eva's people," Dr. Kramer repeated frowningly. "Those I can't convince to stick around, I'll handle before we get to Sanctuary."

"You're quite pragmatic for a doctor," Oleg observed.

Dr. Kramer shrugged. "Behind every great scientific movement are a number of poisoned lab rats. And since we're not really allowed to use lab animals anymore without ignorant masses _whining_ …we'll simply skip to clinical trials." He shrugged again.

Oleg wished Rogers had taken her whole utterly amoral crew with her, instead of the contingent of troopers. Such a waste of resources. But Dr. Kramer had been useful working with the Adjutants. He'd be more useful, according to the Illusive Man, working with Mr. Lawson.

"Get Morgan squared away, then get moving. Sanctuary should be launching soon."


	179. Wisdom

The Shaman hadn't been off Tuchanka since he abandoned his name and accepted the mantle of Shaman to Clan Urdnot. In fact, he hadn't been off Tuchanka since he joined the apprentices of the _last_ Shaman. So not in living memory, as far as anyone on this ship was concerned—ignoring the Prothean's extended nap.

It was a strange, uncomfortable sensation to _know_ there was nothing but hard vacuum outside these flimsy walls. More than that, the small spaces of the ship left his plates itching. Whether Wrex suspected centuries of planet-bound freedom of space or Shepard was simply that astute, he found himself ensconced in the lounge, rather than in the Starboard Observatory with Wrex, Raux, and Griz. The room had space, compared to some of the more compact areas, and big windows looking out into the void.

He wasn't sure whether the windows were a blessing or not. Currently, he had them closed, but closing them made the space feel smaller.

What really had him off balance at the moment, however, were the dozen or so eager faces perching on the various sofas and chairs, or sprawling on the floor, looking up at him with an uncontained wonder. It was clear few of them had ever met an actual krogan, and none of them had ever had a conversation with one. He wondered what they'd been told that they regarded him with such…transparent respect.

Shepard had described the temporary passengers as being 'about Grunt's age.' But while a krogan would be ready for the Rite, apparently humans didn't have that. They'd had their trial by fire, though. Maybe that was it: he was the most knowledgeable warrior present, so they gravitated to a possible source of wisdom.

He debated with himself whether or not it would be worth it or even wise to share what krogan called 'wisdom' with these young ones. On the one hand, krogan were insular. On the other hand, there was nothing he could think of that equired secrecy. Krogan were a straightforward people, after all. So much 'krogna wisdom' was just common sense.

Don't stand in bad shit.

Don't antagonize the wildlife (and not prepare for the reprisal).

Don't meddle with strange plants.

Don't eat strange food.

Drink lots of water.

Care for your teeth.

Love your knees.

Listen to your elders.

Nothing really mystical or secretive, nothing no one else couldn't figure out if given time.

But there they all sat there, looking at him. Them and a handful of the younger of Shepard's crewmen, distinct because of their blue uniforms.

"—and thus I joined Clan Urdnot. Your Captain Shepard once stood in the place of my _krantt_ for one of our children when he came of age—Urdnot Grunt. No Rite saw a dead thresher Maw since the Rite of Urdnot Wrex."

Two of the women of Shepard's crew exchanged glances. "Two humans and a krogan against a Thresher maw? How big was it?" one of them asked, sounding more awed than disbelieving.

"Big enough to swallow your dwelling," the Shaman answered flatly, inwardly amused by the repeat of exchanged looks. In reality, it had been about average.

"Did-did you kill the maw in your Rite, sir?" one of the lads at the back of the group asked.

The Shaman grinned. "Damn straight."

The lad's eyes grew even rounder. "Wow!" he breathed.

"Is there anything on Tuchanka that _doesn't_ try to kill you?" one of the girls marveled.

"Not really. It's why we're a strong people. When even the _flowers_ try to kill you, you've _got_ to be tough. Otherwise, it's just embarrassing. One of my fellow apprentices went out that way: got too close to a striped bellflower. One of the blossoms popped itself over his head and…" he made a slurping sound, which his auditors would be free to decipher for themselves.

In reality, it was less a slurping sound and more the toxic properties of the pollen when applied to krogan. They didn't need the boring bits, though.

Laughter greeted this, semi-credulous laughter that nevertheless warmed the cockles of his heart. They were fresh, these humans…which was ironic, considering he had calluses older than they were.

"Why did you become a Shaman?" one of the lads asked.

The Shaman sighed. He knew that question would come up, eventually. "We krogan have come to accept that with pain comes wisdom. Let us say I became wise at a young age, and leave it be."

A little unease, as if his audience worried that the question offended him.

"But if you want to know _how_ I did it, it was a six-way death match when the old Shaman died. He didn't make a pick, you see, before he snuffed it." The levity in wording reassured these children that storytime wasn't over. "And we didn't all agree who was the best candidate."

"So you killed five other krogan to become Shaman?" one of the girls frowned.

"Hard times call for hard ways," the Shaman answered evenly. "Technically, _I_ only killed one krogan to assume the mantle of Shaman."

"So…what do think about the Reapers? I mean," one of the servicemen stumbled over his words. "Like you said, hard times call for hard ways. I just wondered if…" By now, he looked like he wished he hadn't said anything.

"Hate hard, hate early," the Shaman answered. Then, after a moment's thought, "Hit hard, and don't _regret_ it. Don't try to save them. They're past saving. Worry about your comrades and your Battlemaster. Listen up and do what they tell you." He chuckled at the looks that passed between the students and the servicemen, a kind of 'well…we already kind of figured all that out.' "Krogan advice is mostly just common sense."

The door hissed open, revealing Shepard and the fair-haired woman identified as the head of the _crèche_ to which the students belonged. "Sorry to break this up," the _crèche_ -mistress declared. "But we just docked with the Citadel. Time to go."


	180. Sleepwalkers

"Hey, EDI?" Shepard asked, her headcount of students having come up one short.

It was the first time EDI failed to answer a hail for her attention.

"EDI?"

" _I am sorry, Shepard._ " The AI didn't sound hurried in her response, but Shepard got the feeling that she might have, had she been anyone else. " _I was…distracted. What can I do for you?_ "

"I'm one short on my student headcount. Is David with you?" She knew very well he was. Somewhat to everyone's surprise, David had taken a shine to EDI, who had taken a reciprocal interest in the lad.

To the point, Shepard grinned to herself, that Joker began to feel a little put out and abandoned. Well, maybe it was good for him to get that sense of deprivation every so often, keep him apprised of the fact that he wasn't the only one who didn't have a problem with EDI being of the synthetic persuasion.

" _Yes. Of course. I will—_ "

"It's okay. I'll come get him," Shepard interrupted.

" _We are currently in the AI core._ "

" _Thank you._ " The voice, this time, belonged to David.

"You're both welcome."

Shepard found EDI and David as indicated, in the AI Core. They both sat tailor fashion on the slab that EDI used as a bed, facing one another. Pinocchio, the stuffed rabbit, sat attentively against the wall. In the space between them rested EDI's and David's loosely clasped hands.

Shepard stopped at the open door. Guttural, synthetic sounds emanated from David, pitch rising and falling in a flow that would have shocked those who knew him. He was usually quiet and withdrawn.

Not so now.

Shepard counted herself lucky she'd heard him do this before. Geth-type sounds—Legion explained what they actually were, once—coming from a human sounded extraordinary. Geth-type sounds a usually left Shepard, anyone who'd heard those Geth warbles, tense and ready to fight.

"Knock-knock."

David said something to which EDI responded, "I'm afraid so."

David looked disappointed, possibly because EDI had reverted to comprehensible language. He warbled again.

"It is polite."

Another warble.

"Even when conversing with our Geth crewman, I preferred to remain polite."

David sighed, then turned where he sat, swinging his legs over the edge of the slab, his eyes settling somewhere about knee-level on Shepard. "Do I have to go?"

"Afraid so," Shepard answered, glancing at EDI.

The AI wasn't looking at Shepard at all, but at David, with a kind of tender fondness that left Shepard biting her lip. It was the soft look of someone who wasn't accustomed to tenderness, and if it was simply EDI's personal practice of wearing expressions for the benefit of those around her it was an astounding simulation. Shepard hoped, though, that it was a genuine reflection of what the AI was feeling.

Yes, _feeling_. EDI was built to learn, to adapt. She'd already demonstrated that she could become fond of people. Why not expand on the nuances of fondness?

Without letting go of EDI's hand, David got to his feet, turned to EDI who did the same. "Goodbye, Lovely Computer," he mumbled shyly, skin turning pink.

"Goodbye, for now, David," EDI answered. Then, she leaned over and kissed his cheek.

Looking disconcerted, but pleased, David started walking towards Shepard…without letting go of EDI's hand.

Shepard stifled her grin as David and EDI passed her, leaving her to bring up the rear.

'Lovely Computer.' Shepard somehow doubted anyone else could have said it and made it sound like such a compliment.

-J-

EDI watched as David let go of her hand to rejoin his classmates.

"Made a friend, huh?" Shepard asked quietly.

"Yes." It had been strange. Forced to speak in the flat language most sapients used, David was silent, withdrawn, buffeted by the chaos the non-organization of organics caused. Given a sleek, streamlined form of communication, ruled by logic, order, and rationale, he was truly a beautiful person. Give him someone whose 'mind he could meet' and it became clear how ridiculously nearsighted Gavin Archer had been. He'd tried to use a genuine Monet to stand in for a piece of drywall, a real Michelangelo for a support stud.

She had agreed it was (personal assessment: good) that Shepard had rescued David from that awful place. Now, she _understood_ rather than _knew_ why it was (personal assessment: good). Just because no one else could appreciate David's beautiful mind didn't mean it didn't exist, that it shouldn't be protected like the treasure it was.

Even if he elected to use the Geth fashion of communication, it was completely different than Legion's coolly efficient style. With David there was poetry and color, so much so that EDI suspected she had grown as an entity, gained nuanced understanding she might never be able to articulate for others…but which made her more _real_.

She glanced at Shepard, turning all her cameras onto the N7 smiling benignly at the disembarking students. She thought she knew Shepard fairly well. However, in the discussions with David in which Shepard came up, EDI realized she understood Shepard as a computer understood a model. Now, as she looked at the N7, she found herself wondering if she really _knew_ any of her comrades. Being able to predict their behaviors, knowing the contents of their files, even knowing favorite colors and foods…it didn't mean anything if she couldn't do anything with that information.

In some ways, she was still as separate from people as David was. Only her walls and disconnects could—so she told herself—be overcome. She only needed to find the key.

It was why he called her the Lovely Computer. Computers weren't lovely. They might be used to do lovely things, but in and of themselves, they weren't lovely. They were just tools.

Which meant she wasn't really _just_ a computer. It was like with organics: they weren't _just_ biological processes geared towards survival and propagation. They were more than the sum of their parts.

And now she _understood_ the concept.


	181. Workaholic

He needed to focus, and working on the Kodiak helped more than he could say. The attention needed was exacting, there were so many details. This heap of hardware—no, piece of sophisticated machinery—was responsible for making sure one of the war's greatest assets got shipside to groundside—and back again. There was no room for failure during that brief time that 'groundside invincibility' wasn't an option.

He knew, logically, that Shepard wasn't really invincible. But put her on the ground—especially with Vakarian—and no one would believe it.

She always made a sound if she came upon someone while his back was turned. Something innocuous so that, when she started speaking, she didn't freak anyone out by coming out of nowhere. "Everything good with the shuttle?"

"Just double-checking the inertia dampener coils," he answered without ceasing his work. "Can be twitchy in these UT-47s. No worries, though—this bird's rock solid." He made sure of it. And its alternate. And the various firearms—except her particle beam. No one but her seemed to have that one figured out yet.

That and it was a battle trophy. No one else should be touching it, anyway.

He could hear her thinking. One could always tell when she was thinking, an imagined 'tick-tick' sound, the gentle whir of gears and cogs which should suffuse the air. "I always see you down here working," she noted, coming to stand beside the shuttle once he turned off the torch. "Working you ass off. You ever take any downtime?"

He knew where this was going. It was nice of her to care but she needn't bother. She, of all people, could appreciate needing to work, needing to keep one's mind occupied.

"I get my eight hours, Captain. Flying drowsy is nearly worse than flying drunk."

"What about your waking hours?"

She already knew the answer; her tone was too innocuous not to already know. She knew, he sighed mentally, because in some degree she'd _been there_. She knew what to look for because she'd lived it. It was harder to tell someone who knew to mind their own damn business than it was to tell someone who hadn't. Someone who had could—and knowing Shepard would—push back.

It was the hypocrisy of leadership: worry about everyone else, hold nothing back for yourself. At least she had a wingman to manage her. He had no doubt Vakarian watched Shepard like a hawk, ready to sweep in and order her— _order her_ , mind—to get some sleep or dinner or tap out or whatever. She might argue, but she'd comply in the end. They'd been through that much together.

"I need to keep myself busy. Otherwise…well, you understand."

"That's why I asked."

"I know my limits." Why wouldn't she just go away? "I wouldn't take a chance with your life."

It hung in the air like dust: 'I'm not worried about me.'

"So before the war, you must've done something to relax."

She wasn't going to let this go. She was like a doctor, feeling at a broken bone that had healed wrong—or hadn't finished healing wrong.

"I used to be a fighter jock," he admitted. "Serving on the _Hawking._ We were based out of Arcturus."

"Good port to be based out of."

If one could get used to too much outer space or too many blank walls. It was all or nothing on Arcturus.

"There was this observation deck overlooking the main flightpaths. You could watch every ship taxi in and out. When I was alone—" How had she scratched this to the surface? "—I used to turn off the auditory emulators and just watch them drift by in silence." Or wear his earphones: a graceful ballet of starships heading into and out of black.

"You know, there're quite a few views like that on the Citadel," she noted as if she was not making serious suggestions she might just back up with an order. "And we're already there. You should take some shore leave. Clear your head.

"I dunno. Maybe." He turned to resume work—or look like he was working.

"Cortez…Steve." She put a hand on his shoulder; the lightness suggested she expected the gesture to be rejected.

Cortez stopped pretending to work. She knew those haunted shadows all too well, knew that loss sometimes inflicted wounds that could leave someone to bleed to death from them. Wounds that didn't just go away over time, that couldn't be salved by just anyone. Sometimes it took another survivor.

And she believed, really believed, that he was far from beyond saving.

It was all over her face, in the little lines and creases.

"Take some time off, away from the ship. As a favor to me." It wasn't an order, simply an appeal from someone who'd been there.

Cortez pursed his lips, then nodded. With a shrug, he hiked his gameface back on, wondering when it had fallen off. "Well, when you put it like that, how can I say no?"

"You can't." She patted his shoulder, then withdrew.

Cortez leaned against the shuttle, feeling worn-out. He shouldn't, he knew he shouldn't—he got his eight hours, took it easy on the coffee so as to avoid the inevitable caffeine crash later, and the shakes—but the conversation with Shepard seemed to have drained him.

-J-

Cortez frowned at his inbox. A new message marked 'important' from Shepard was at the top of the list, flagged for _maximum importance_. He knew what it was before he even opened it, which he did with a mild feeling of resignation. She wasn't going to let this go.

She rarely made shore leave official, just a call over the comm with a minimum expected timeframe. It was like letting the kids roam the mall while mom did her shopping.

The message contained a pass for eight hours of shore leave on the Citadel with a footnote.

 _Please take it._ _As a favor to me._


	182. Grow

It was awkward, and if there was one thing Joker hated, it was things that were awkward. On the list of things Joker hated, 'things that were awkward' came just below 'people who talk at the theater' and somewhere above 'weird fuzzies showing up on my clothes.'

But awkward things had finally showed up, so he had to deal with them.

You'd have thought—he mused silently—that 'awkward things' would be krogan and turians eating in the same mess hall without declaring war (or starting a food fight) by the end of the first meal.

In this case, 'awkward things' involved his copilot, whose mobile platform had been MIA for insanely long stretches of time. It just wasn't the same, talking to EDI as a disembodied avatar, though he appreciated instead of the weird little blue icon, she now substituted the face with which people were familiar. He missed actually having her _in_ _her chair_.

He glanced at the empty chair.

She'd been spending an awful lot of time with David Archer since the team rescued the kids from Grissom.

He would never admit to being jealous. But he definitely felt _abandoned_ , and that was much healthier…right?

He tried not to be too glad when the kids disembarked…but at the same time, he wanted his copilot back. He missed talking with her. Missed her occasionally hilarious not-funny moments. He didn't like just being stuck with a voice that answered when he said something. It made him feel like her attention was elsewhere, and he was getting just enough to keep him quiet.

Which was stupid, he told himself. Weren't there laws about messing with guys like David? You know, the protective kind?

Wait, and hadn't that whole weird Overlord mess threatened EDI, herself?

Joker grimaced. Nothing against David personally, but he was suddenly very glad the guy was gone.

He knocked resolutely on the door of the AI Core. It slid open immediately, revealing EDI sitting on the slab that served as a 'bed,' her knees drawn up loosely to her chest. Sitting facing her was Pinocchio.

The scene reminded him of a very young Hilary, addressing one of her own stuffed toys. ' _Now, tell me candidly, Lucy—JEFF! GO_ _AWAY_ _!_ '

EDI didn't shout, but maybe because he hadn't alerted her to his presence by saying ' _hey, weirdo_.' Apparently, he mused, he'd been a bit of a jerk as a kid. "Hello, Jeff."

"Hey. Am I interrupting?" he nodded at Pinocchio.

"Not at all. I was thinking," EDI answered, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and moving Pinocchio before patting where the rabbit had been.

Joker hobbled over and sat down, slouching comfortably. "Getting used to an emptier ship? I guess the kids kept you buys with questions."

EDI cocked her head thoughtfully. "I enjoyed having the extra personages. However, I would not wish to take them into the kinds of places we go."

"Liabilities?"

EDI's thoughtful expression became a scowl. "I understand the theory of why people prefer children not take part in wars—even children on the cusp of adulthood. I also understand the pragmatic necessity of why it will be so—and with children much younger than the Grissom students. But I find myself reluctant to witness such a…development of maturity. Javik believes such losses of innocence are inevitable. Logic and evidence support this viewpoint. However…" EDI shook her head.

"No one wants to see kids grow up too fast," Joker answered. A deep sense of unease filled his stomach as he regarded EDI's silvery features, still pulled into a mask of painful consternation.

"Yes. It must and will happen. But I would rather not witness it. Does that…make me cowardly?"

For once, no glibly deflective humor came to his defense when EDI brought out the deep stuff. "…neither would Shepard. She likes kids to stay kids for as long as possible."

EDI nodded, some of the frown easing. "That is true. Thank you, Jeff."

"Aw, we'll make mom material out of you yet."

"I highly doubt my platform is conducive to procreation," EDI answered absently.

Not for the first time, Joker kind of wondered…and then stopped wondering abruptly. "Hey, we're on the Citadel. That means shore leave."

"Yes," EDI agreed, looking from her contemplation of nothing to study his face. Most of her consternation had cleared.

Here it was again: an awkward moment. It had been _lonely_ on the bridge, all by himself. At one point, it wouldn't have bothered him. Now, it did. And was it weird to, essentially, as his ship out to go do something normal? He couldn't bring himself to call it a date, but several people had expressed approval for EDI getting off the ship—and the safest way for her to travel was as his 'mobility assistance mech.'

"I was thinking…do you want to go do…something? You know. Us. On the Citadel." Cheesy crap on toast, he was really bad at this! How had he not realized how lame that would sound before he said it?

EDI's expression brightened. "We could go see a show," she volunteered helpfully. "I have been curious about ' _The Man Who Hung Himself._ ' It is, apparently, a comedy about an amorous plastic surgeon. We both like humor."

Joker found himself laughing. Without her appended explanation, it sounded like a real downer. _With_ the explanation…something that sounded so bad had to be good. "Okay, sounds like fun." Joker got creakily to his feet. "We'll make plans."

He had just reached the door when EDI called, softly, "Jeff?"

"Yeah?"

She held Pinocchio again, regarded the rabbit with intense scrutiny. "Have you missed me?"

His insides squirmed with an unease he couldn't quite explain. Normally, he might have deflected with humor, but again it didn't come to his aid. So he told the truth. "Yeah. I have."

EDI's eyes closed. "Thank you."

"Are you okay?" he frowned.

EDI opened her eyes, looking away from the rabbit. "I simply have a lot on my mind."


	183. Weights

The problem with the Citadel's vistas, Steve Cortez thought morosely to himself, was that they were all designed to look spectacularly out over the lovely pink and lavender nebula.

Shepard's rueful voice from their most recent conversation echoed in his head. _Yeah. When we first got here—Williams, Alenko and me—we goggled at it. Maybe a little more than we should have, but you know how it is._

He knew Alenko mostly by report (the Normandy's first near-casualty) and partly from observation (there had been a little time for that). _He's still in the hospital, right? That where you're off to? To see your guy?_ He'd wanted her to hurry up and go—or so he told himself—but Shepard hadn't bought the 'you're busy, I get it, don't worry about me.'

 _He's not mine._

At the time, he noticed the slightly hollow note in her voice. It was only now that Steve realized most people would have simply said 'yes' and that the question she answered was not the one he had asked. Shepard usually referred to everyone in her crew as being one of 'her guys' or something to that effect. In this case, though…

 _He's not mine._

Well, well.

It wasn't weird for Shepard to come across as fiercely protective of her crew. You didn't need a psychology degree to know why: somewhere in the back of her mind, so deep even she might not be wholly aware of it, these were all the little brothers and sisters and cousins the Alliance made her responsible for, trusted her with, as the eldest (and last surviving) member of her family. She knew _exactly_ what happened if she didn't or couldn't fill that role to perfection. It was this unwillingness to accept another helping of those consequences that made her so fierce, so tenacious.

 _It's just hard. You know what it's like. Losing someone you love._

 _Yeah._

Now, he wondered about that one-word answer. At the time, he'd been thinking about the family, dead on Mindoir, that everyone knew about. But maybe she'd been referring to a more recent loss.

Unrequited love was a bitch.

Steve pulled his cap off, running a hand through his hair before resettling the blue cover.

 _Alone, limping. Looking for a haven. Maybe it would have been better to just go down fighting. Like their families back home._

 _You talking about the turians or yourself?_

Not exactly a fast pitch. And it was only when he realized exactly how _obvious_ his statement was that he also realized he was less averse to the idea of Shepard poking and prodding at his grief than someone else. She knew grief. She knew loss. And whatever the greater part of his mind said, some small part of him was apparently still looking for reasons to—now that he was at the end of his rope—tie a knot and hang on.

And if anyone had answers, if anyone could throw him the line that last holdout kept groping and flailing for, she could.

 _I should have been there. With Robert._

 _But you weren't. You're alive, Steve._ Cold fingers found the pulse in his wrist, drawing attention he steady lump-lump of his own heartbeat. _And that's a good thing._

… _maybe so._

 _They didn't give up. Neither did I. Neither have you. And from what I can tell, the reason you haven't given up yet, is because he called you to save your life. It wasn't from the Collectors though, was it?_

Just as they had when she asked him that question, asked but hadn't insisted on an answer, his eyes stung with fresh tears, a tinge of pain that ran so deep that it confirmed what she was saying: part of him knew that Robert's last wish was _that he_ _live_. And _that_ was why he hadn't quite given up, hadn't quite let go of hope.

The tears were harder to push back this time.

 _So… do whatever it takes to see another day?_

 _No one can tell you when it's time to move on. No one can tell you when to let go. It took a hospital trip and several days of asking really hard, painful questions before I could even think about either. If I could save you that experience, I'd like to._

 _You don't do things by halves, do you? …I'll think about it._

She'd given him a gentle smile. _Hang in there, Steve. I'm here if you need me._ She left not long after saying this, at his not-too-subtle prompting. He'd needed a little space, some time to think.

He'd have preferred to do his thinking looking into the blackness between stars, but the Citadel was proud of its nebula backdrop. It seemed _far_ too cheerful for his state of mind.

Steve hunched over, the combined weight of loss, grief, and something like guilt suddenly heavy on his shoulders. Shepard was right; she'd given words to that nameless part of him that refused to stop grasping for straws. It was the unselfish part of him that recognized and sought to fulfil Robert's dying wish: that he go on _living_ , that he not allow loss to quietly stifle him, that he not allow his grief to become a selfish, unhealthy thing.

He had, though. He'd brooded on his loss, picked at the scabs of his pain, let the emptiness of his life now leech him cold and bleak, let himself grow hollow, shutting himself off from warmth and hope, to drown in the grey of mere _existence_.

He wasn't ready to let go. He definitely wasn't ready to move on. But he didn't want to continue the pattern of failing so utterly in cherishing his loved one's memory.

Maybe that was enough of a start.

In the back of his mind, Robert laughed. _That boulder's gonna be there when you come back. And if it's not, so much the better!_

Steve pushed himself to his feet. "Sisyphus," he admonished, "just leave that stone alone."

-J-

Author's Note; Sisyphus was a mythological king who, in the afterlife, was condemned to roll a boulder up a hill until he got it to the top. However, the boulder would always roll back to the bottom of the hill just before Sisyphus got it to the top, and he'd have to start all over again.


	184. Friends

The music of Purgatory pulsed and pounded, like someone stuck behind a door and trying to get out. Apropos, Miranda thought, for Aria T'Loak, stuck on the Citadel.

Purgatory was a far cry from Afterlife. Even with the gritty atmosphere and cheap décor, it still looked like a place on its best behavior while rubbing shoulders with the galactic elite.

Aria no longer presided over her club. Rather, she sat in a space adjacent to it, looking sour and disgusted over something. Or maybe that was just her resting face.

If nothing else was going right for the asari, her club seemed quite popular.

Shepard and a datapad sat in one of the booths near the bar on the lower level, strangely inconspicuous…except for the batarian sitting at the table with a clear line of sight on her. All four of the male's eyes were fixed unblinkingly on Shepard, as if to _blink_ might be to allow her enough time to disappear.

For a batarian, he wasn't being particularly discreet in his attention to Shepard. Which, in all likelihood, meant he belonged to Aria rather than being someone who meant Shepard harm.

"You've got an admirer," Miranda observed, indicating the batarian with her head.

"His name's Narl. I think Aria wants him to keep anyone from giving me a reason to make things go boom in her club. Or he's on her shitlist and babysitting is her punishment detail. It's gotta be boring, watching me drink water while I pretend he isn't there."

Badly. While pretending he wasn't there, _badly_.

Miranda eyed the sweating glass of barely-touched water. "Well, let's get a little adventurous and have something juice-based. Don't worry, I know you're working," she appended.

She passed a gaggle of Alliance troops, all of whom seemed to be discussing Shepard. She cast a sidelong look at them, then a proper look after having placed her order. From the authoritative way the one on the end spoke, he was probably a member of Shepard's crew. She knew what showing off looked like, and this wasn't it.

Besides, no one else (with a grain of sense) would sound that familiar with Shepard and be that sure of his story if she was in the same building, possibly within earshot.

Miranda took the drinks back to where Shepard sat.

"Thanks." Shepard put the datapad onto the seat beside her, then grimaced. "Sour lemon?" she asked, trying not to pucker her whole face.

"I thought it apropos," Miranda shrugged, wishing it was something stronger. But between the fact that Shepard was on duty, and was an obligate teetotaler, a Life Gives You Lemons seemed most appropriate.

"Oh, totally," Shepard chuckled, inspecting the drink, slushy and of indeterminate color in the chaotic lighting. "How're you doing?"

Miranda shook her head. "Still nothing."

"Hostages are risky. He'll be careful with her. If he's not, there's nothing to stop you from warping him into a pulp when you finally catch up. He's got to know that. So until then, Oriana's safe from the Reapers and from Cerberus," Shepard assured.

They were things Miranda tried to tell herself before, but which always left her doubting. Hearing them from someone else, for whom these kinds of risks were factors she had to consider—from both sides—unknotted some of Miranda's tension. "Thanks, Shepard."

"And if he and the Illusive Man are in bed together—"

"Not an image I wanted, Shepard."

"—neither is going to alienate the other without a good reason," Shepard finished before draining down half her drink. "Wow. That's got a zing to it," she observed.

"You're supposed to sip it, not drink it neat," Miranda observed, smiling rustily.

"Is _that_ what I've been doing wrong all these years?" After a comfortable silence, Shepard sighed. "Any run-ins with Cerberus?"

"A few. The Illusive Man felt he needed to _contain the situation_ , and thanked me for all my hard work."

"Guess that's when he started calling the henchmen hotline."

"More like went on an emergency recruiting drive. I take it you've seen those." Miranda's stomach clenched and roiled. Part of her wanted to scream: that wasn't the Cerberus she'd signed up with, believed in. It wasn't the Cerberus the Illusive Man once believed in, either.

"Yeah. Pretty nasty stuff. It's okay. There's a guy whose job is Cerberus. He's gotta be looking for the facility cranking those poor tools out."

"He any good?" Miranda frowned.

"He's really good," Shepard answered, studying her nearly empty glass. "Steer clear of Sheffler if you can. I wouldn't want the two of you fighting."

It was strange to hear that kind of personal concern aimed at her, but Miranda appreciated it. "I'll watch my step."

Another long but companionable silence. "So, I've finished my drink and you've finished yours," Miranda finally observed. "Now what?"

"Dunno. We did un-sweet lemonade at a sketchy club on the very un-sketchy Citadel. Do you want to get bold and try actually hanging out?"

Miranda's eyes narrowed, but her mouth tugged at one corner.

"…okay, I _might_ be avoiding a summons from Councilor Udina," Shepard admitted with a grin.

It was the first time Miranda had laughed in a long time, however short-lived the mirth was. "Can't say I blame you."

"Avoidance is mostly habit. I've gotta admit, he's not nearly as bad as he used to be. As long as I keep filing regular after action reports for anything I do, he doesn't fuss or try to gum up the works. It's weird, to be honest."

"So the Council's really listening to you, now?"

Shepard shrugged, making a noncommittal gesture with her head. "Not really. But Quentius and Udina take an interest in what I've got on the stove. If I get in a jam, I _might_ be able to count on one or both of them to help bail me out of it."

"But better not get in a jam in the first place," Miranda finished.

"Another old habit," Shepard grinned ruefully.


	185. Minefield

Diana Allers rolled her shoulders as the grim buzz of doom-on-that disapproval suffused the room. It was about the third atmospheric change within the last half an hour. The sound of tapping turian talons was lost, but she did notice that both Garrus and Victus were idly tapping their feet. Grim and uneasy turians had a tendency to try to tap their toe-talons on the floor, the way a bird of prey might flex its claws in its handler's glove.

Rather than give Shepard the anti-Cerberus Grissom Academy coverage bits for private perusal, she had requested a 'movie night' so she could 'poll the waters' and see how the people who were there responded.

At which point Shepard called her on her true motive: she wanted to show how valuable someone who knew how to assemble a propaganda piece—or, as in this case, a campaign against someone who seemed pretty untouchable by conventional means—could be.

The first segment was one of the 'to music' shorts, a warm-up representing Cerberus as a bunch of bumbling idiots that Shepard's ground team slammed and scattered like a well-placed bowling ball into the pins. The change in mood would be more dramatic if the first piece set everyone up for a laugh.

The second piece, with a suitably somber voiceover, would tear at the hearts of parents and elder siblings everywhere.

This third piece, also voiced over, informative and incensory, had the crew chafing to double back and see if they missed anyone (quite forgetting that EDI had spaced anyone the ground team missed).

"Alright, you can play emotions," Shepard said quietly as the music changed. "You can run the second two."

"Yeah. That first one might do for MyView, but not for _Battlespace_ ," Allers agreed comfortably. "You know, I've been thinking."

Shepard arched her eyebrows, but didn't look away from the screen.

"Are you aware that the Alliance never officially commented on your, uh, supposed association with Cerberus?" She had to be careful how she said this, because she could smell a touchy subject when she got close to one.

To her surprise, Shepard simply exhaled wearily, looking away from the screen. She looked exhausted at the simple mention of the topic. "What do you want, Allers?"

"To _help_ ," Allers answered, a little more sharply than she meant. "I'm not asking you to make a statement. I'm asking you to consider a possibility: right now, no one knows what to believe, but they believe that you're fighting the Reapers and that you're gonna win."

For a moment, Shepard's expression grew wooden, as if she had more doubt than the nebulous 'they.' But, a moment later, she seemed to settle on appreciating the vote of confidence for what it was. "Okay."

"But if Cerberus tries a smear campaign on you, and with the Alliance's silence, it's…it could impede your efforts. You'd be amazed how little friction it takes to gum up a good thing."

Shepard snorted as if she knew firsthand. It was, perhaps, this firsthand knowledge that made her look at Allers intently. "So you're saying I've got a massive PR problem? I barely believe the real story. And it's going to make a lot of people uncomfortable. Do more harm than good."

A chill settled in Allers' stomach. "I'm not going to pry, Captain," Allers said primly, direction her own attention at the screen. "And I'm not going to ask you to talk if you don't want to. I know you've got a thing about not liking to talk to the press. But PR and propaganda are my battlefields and minefields, but I know what to look for so I don't step on anything. But if Cerberus can put you on the defense, they've undermined your war effort. You need people to trust you right now, and with so much scary stuff happening, it won't take much to undermine what trust 'she was right' bought you. Scary stuff saturations points, you know?"

Shepard didn't say anything for a moment. Then, when Allers thought she wasn't going to say anything more at all, that the subject was closed for now. "How do you tell people I'm still me after being clinically dead for more than eighteen months?"

Allers looked away from the screen, unsure for a moment whether Shepard was teasing her. But something in the woodenness of Shepard's expression, in the grim way she frowned at the screen told Allers she wasn't. Allers considered. Yeah, that would upset a lot of people. If would confuse them and be hard to explain so that it could be understood. "You leave out the timeframe. You…took injury…then you woke up at whatever medical facility without realizing how much time had passed, and found out about the time gap later. They don't need to know you were actually dead. Uh…w-were you?"

"So they tell me."

No wonder she didn't want to talk about it! And no wonder the Alliance didn't, either. Coming back from the dead was heavy stuff. Even if it could be explained, you still had too many people who only looked at headlines and not the stuff in the article. And 'back from the dead' type science was probably beyond most people, anyway. "Then we just don't say dead," she concluded firmly.

"How do you avoid it? I got spaced."

"Shit," Allers breathed, opening her mouth.

Shepard continued looking at the screen, but she wasn't really watching the display. Her eyes clouded with bad memories and unpleasant thoughts.

A lump she couldn't quite explain rose in Allers' throat as she watched Shepard's profile. "I'm sure we can find a place for you to tactfully black out," she offered.

After another long silence, "Do you really think this is an item of concern?"

Allers looked at her hands in her lap. "I think we should be ready to offer an explanation while these rumors persist, even though blowing Cerberus' plans up with extreme prejudice should say enough."

Shepard closed her eyes. "Alright."


	186. Burdens

Diana Allers dropped into her bunk with the dull thud of true exhaustion. Her head ached from the tension of maintaining a coolly professional manner. The interview about Shepard's stint with Cerberus, the reasons for it and what all it entailed, would have been utterly fascinating…if it hadn't been so apparently distressing for Shepard herself. And Shepard wasn't one to let her distresses show if she could help it.

But it had been late, by the time Allers' full span of anti-Cerberus campaign clips finished airing, and although she'd offered to do the interview the next night, Shepard refused. If she put it off, she'd keep finding reasons to put it off indefinitely. Better to just get it over with.

It started with the first Normandy, and the very first Collector attack. Shepard was not a wordsmith, but she did have a way of breathing life into her narrative rather than spouting it out like an after-action report.

She never said how Cerberus got hold of her body—or what was left of it—only that after passing out in space as her suit slowly depressurized, she woke up in a surgical suite and nearly died right there on the table. Then more darkness, more timelessness, then the second awakening: right in the middle of a shitshow of epic proportions.

She resented owing them anything, but was reminded that she did—whether she chose to honor the debt or not—with every breath, every time she woke up in the morning, every time she lay down at night, every time she tasted something, smelled something, saw a friend's face or heard their voices. Being half-machine wasn't so bad, but Allers could sense the existential quandary Shepard continued slogging through.

 _Am I real? Am I still_ _me_ _?_

The two years she lost had left her playing catch-up, as it would with any coma patient, but Allers sensed a deep, black well of unresolved _guilt_ that only angry denial and sheer pigheaded stubbornness kept at bay.

And, unlike the coma patient, there was too much room for misunderstanding, for people to believe that the Spectre had simply gone undercover, faked her death, or simply elected to disappear for a while. The lack of answers had to be tough for those Shepard came back to…but at the same time, Shepard didn't seem to think she had any satisfactory answers to give.

The litany was there for anyone who could put aside fascination with a genuinely interesting story and listen: If she hadn't died, injuries could have been avoided. If she hadn't died, so many hurts could have been avoided. If she hadn't died, she could have made enough noise to get something constructive done. If she hadn't died, maybe this would have happened. If she hadn't died, that wouldn't have happened.

Shepard desperately needed counseling, Allers thought, squeezing her eyes shut. But even if she sought it, how could anyone understand what she'd been through, was still going through? Allers had no reason to disbelieve anything Shepard told her, and felt sure Shepard had been watching for signs of disbelief, for an excuse to cancel the interview altogether.

More than once, Allers had wanted to reach out, to place a comforting hand on Shepard's shoulder, or something of that nature, and it had taken extreme discipline not to do so, for she felt certain the gesture would have been rebuffed. Less out of rudeness or not wanting sympathy and more because Shepard mightn't know how to _accept_ such sympathy in the first place. Shepard was one who gave until she had nothing left. Accepting a small return would probably be difficult, if only because it went against habit.

She could almost feel the relief Shepard never admitted to when the fallout of the suicide mission to the Collectors' base came up. Shepard had done everything right, and everyone—all of her people—came home. She hadn't been able to save the colonists, but those who came with her, who were taken from her, were all recovered only a little worse for wear. Yet even that relief had an uneasiness to it, as if Shepard was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the trick Fate meant to play her for getting it right.

Allers threw back her blankets and made a beeline for her office. Although she could easily have set up a cot in the room she used, she preferred to bunk with the crew, just as she preferred to eat with them. It was an integration thing. She wasn't exactly one of them, not being navy personnel, but she wasn't so distanced from them, either.

But you just couldn't cry in the crew barracks if you weren't known for doing it without someone—everyone—wanting to know what was wrong. And she couldn't answer those questions without betraying Shepard's confidence, for she felt certain that so much of what was said was meant to be confidential. For now.

After about twenty minutes, Allers found herself feeling a little better, her breathing still hitching awkwardly in shuddery gasps. But she did feel a little better. A little emptier. And a little guilty. She doubted Shepard cried about all this. But maybe, as with accepting sympathy and comfort, she didn't know how to just cut loose and get it out.

Damn, but someone needed to give that marine a big hug! The thought, serious as it was, made her chuckle in a watery fashion. A moment later, someone tapped on the door.

Allers hastily wiped her eyes but could do nothing about the redness of her face. "Yeah? It's open."

Looking somewhat watery and bright-eyed himself, Steve Cortez entered the room carrying two steaming mugs. He dropped into the seat opposite her and slid one mug across the table without really looking at her.

He didn't talk, and neither did she. They just sat there, companionably waiting for the trailing edges of current distress to pass, and drank their hot cocoa.


	187. Ruffle Some Feathers

"Yo!"

Jack had the grim satisfaction of seeing Kaidan start, tense, and turn with one hand ready to do… _something_.

She also had the smug satisfaction of watching his expression open into genuine non-comprehension. "What the hell? You end up in the frikkin' hospital—" Ugh, those kids were wearing off on her. He was a marine and they weren't around, and she ought to be throwing f-bombs everywhere just because she _could_. And did she? _No_. Ugh. "And you don't say a word to me? I thought we had something like…being buddies or some shit…going on. Don't you tell your buddies when your ass lands in the hospital?"

"It wasn't that bad," Kaidan offered…but his smile was a little too sickly.

"Yeah, I heard about that knock the head, sweetheart." She walked over to his bed, picked up the pillow and threw it at him. "I was worried, asshole!" Then, grumpily, "Stop smiling. I called you an asshole, didn't I? That means you _don't_ smile."

"I'm sorry I made you worry, Jack. Kinda what I was trying to avoid."

"Yeah, speaking of avoidance. I met your girl."

That wiped the 'aw, you do care' grin off his handsome features as efficiently as a well-placed kick might. The smile he lost, Jack found.

"Girl?" Kaidan asked guardedly.

"Yeah. She's fierce. Not what I expected you to want to hook up with." The muscles in Alenko's jaw tightened as she spoke. Okay. So it was serious, then. "So what'd you do to piss her off?"

"She's not pissed off," came the cold 'we're not doing this' response.

"No…" Jack agreed, levering herself to sit on the foot of his bed. "So if you didn't piss her off, you hurt her feelings. Damn. Women like that don't usually get hurt over little shit. You didn't mess with her sister on a drunken bender, did you?" She could almost hear him petitioning someone, somewhere for patience.

"All her sisters died before they were old enough to drink. Why the concern for her? I didn't think you'd met previously."

Nice try to deflect. "I'm not worried about her. I'm worried about _you_. Woman like that? She doesn't break guys 'cuz it's funny. She does it 'cuz she can't help it." It was true, too. She'd known several women like Shepard over the years. People who got close to them usually got hurt. 'Fault' didn't really enter into it. "She's too strong and you're already in the hospital. You'd be smart not to fix whatever broke. I don't think you're strong enough. Just saying." "Why does everyone who knows think they need to tell me I'm not good enough for her?" Kaidan asked testily.

Jack snorted, crossing her arms. "I didn't say that, dickhead. I _said_ you weren't _strong_ enough for her. Big frikkin' difference. If you weren't _good_ enough, she wouldn't give a damn, and it wouldn't matter."

This was why she didn't to relationship counselling. But like Pandora's whatever, once it was opened, stuff kept coming out.

"Not strong enough?"

Jack grimaced. Why hadn't she ever noticed what a dummy he was? "Uh, yeah. Lemme tell you, a girl like that? People around her get hurt. Ask her. She'll probably say as much. So, she needs to know you're the one who won't get hurt. Or, if you aren't, that you're not going anywhere and are just gonna hold your ground until the worst is over. Sometimes, you just gotta know someone can't be pushed away. You gotta get in her face and stay in her face and let her know you're not going anywhere. Shit," Jack huffed, shaking her head irritably. "Change the subject already. I don't do _feelings_."

"Why are you here?" But the words came out stilted, as if she'd given him something to think about that took up the greater part of his attention. Like he'd been handed a puzzle or a piece of one he was missing and suddenly found that something previously inexplicable made sense. Or just more sense.

"'Cuz frikkin' Cerberus decided to break into my house," she answered more sharply than she meant to. "Lucky Shepard's people are as good as they're cracked up to be, or no one would have noticed anything weird and we'd all be wearing black, white and yellow." Jack scowled. It was hard to get as angry as she'd like when her blood still chilled at just how close that had come to happening.

"Did everyone get out alright?" Kaidan demanded.

"Most of us," she answered morosely. "On the upside, none of _them_ survived."

"Shit." Kaidan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah. Could have been worse, though." A whole lot worse. "When are you out of here?"

"Doc _says_ I'm fine," Kaidan sighed, looking disgusted. "But then she finds just one more test she wants to run. What's next for you?"

Jack kicked her feet. "I go with my kids," she answered. "There was some dithering about where they'd be of most use. They've been training for frontline duty, but… well. You know how people can be."

"Yeah. Keep the kids safe. So, what happened?"

"Shepard says if they're trained for frontline then that's where they need to go. So I guess that's where we're gonna go."

Kaidan's expression reminded her of Shepard's when Shepard made that statement. It was the resignation to necessity, and the cold comfort of 'at least they're older than I was.' It made her feel contaminated, somehow. She'd been killing for almost as long as she could remember. Killing had become, for her, a casual thing. Often a necessary thing.

"Don't look so worried. I'll be there to make sure they don't trip over their own bootlaces or some shit," she declared loudly. "And while we're kicking ass on the ground, she'll be kicking ass wherever else asses need to be kicked. It'll come right somehow." She'd better get used to saying that, for the sake of the kids if no one else.


	188. Crossroads

"So I figured I'd ask you." Alenko slumped on the weights bench, regarding Thane. It was uncanny how _quiet_ he was on the treadmill. Or would be, if his breathing hadn't been so labored, almost painful to hear. As was customary, he pretended not to notice the rasping sound that made him think of lung linings grown tacky, sticking to themselves and refusing to do their jobs properly.

"I'm sorry, Kaidan," Thane finally said, stopping the treadmill. "But I thought you were aware of most of that already."

The answer came like a sucker punch, and Thane let the initial impact have its effect as he quietly drained his water bottle, no easy task without breaking into a coughing fit, but Thane was patient with himself and everyone else.

Thane finished the water and rolled his shoulders, stepping off the machine. "Shepard is very strong. People of her stamp require two things from those who would love them: that the individual be the stone to which they can anchor, and the soft place upon which they can land. If you plan to fix what is broken by simply giving ground, you will never succeed—"

Thane might have said more, except that the door at the end of the small fitness room whisked open.

"Wrex?" Aleko blinked.

"Clan Chief Urnot," Thane inclined his head imperturbably.

"Huh. You're here?" The krogan listened for a moment to the ragged edges of Thane's breathing. "Tuchanka air's good for what ails you. Nice and dry."

"I'll consider it, thank you."

Wrex nodded stiffly, then returned his attention to Alenko. "Heard you took a knock to the head. You look okay to me."

Alenko shrugged, his stomach squirming uneasily. "I should be out, soon."

"Hmm. I hope so. You can give me your opinion."

Alenko blinked owlishly. Wrex asking for his opinion was like a polar bear asking for a salad. "On what?"

Wrex's flat-toothed leer was just as unsettling now as it had ever been. Alenko's annoyance with the krogan—who had always seemed to take perverse delight in pushing his buttons—intensified, but he pushed it back down. Giving Wrex the satisfaction of firing back would only encourage him. "Shepard didn't tell you? She's got some admirers back home."

Thane snorted, looking bemused, as if he found this silly rather than disturbing.

"Admirers?"

"Oh, hell yeah," Wrex grinned.

The silence stretched until Alenko turned to Thane. "Is he serious?"

"I heard certain rumors that members of the krogan population were rather…impressed…by her strength and resilience." Thane answered with a shrug.

"Well, we certainly don't have an excess of asari to impress, now do we?" Wrex asked genially, his red eyes glittering.

Thane pinned Alenko with a dark-eyed, speaking look…but what the other man wanted remained unclear. Alenko sighed heavily. "Shepard isn't interested in krogan." He almost said 'non-humans' but stopped at the last minute out of respect for Thane's feelings.

"How would you know?"

Alenko held Wrex's gaze levelly. "Because they'd have to stand in line behind Garrus."

Wrex's smile became downright nasty, taunting. Wrex had always disliked Alenko—why, Alenko had no idea—and had always respected Shepard. It seemed both in-character and out of it for him to take such an interest in her private life.

"Enough." Thane spoke quietly, but the word carried weight. He didn't sound angry, or tired, or anything, but the word was like a falling anvil crashing into the pavement below and declared the subject closed for discussion. "You have made your point, Clan Chief."

"I don't think so. You don't know this kid like I do," Wrex answered.

"No, I don't," came the serene answer. "Just as you do not know him as I do, and neither of us knows him as Shepard does. And, as we all have her interests at heart, I request that you desist immediately. This isn't helping, it simply makes you feel less helpless."

Wrex glowered, then curled his lip.

Thane regarded him impassively, waiting…waiting…

Then Wrex barked a laugh, gave Alenko a significant look, and nodded.

Thane inclined his head on return, and the krogan left. "He's waiting for you to push back. Why don't you?" the drell asked wearily, sitting on the abandoned weights bench and rolling his shoulders.

"It'd only encourage him," Alenko answered flatly.

"He must be very fond of Shepard. His attempts to help, while clumsy, are well-meant."

Alenko exhaled. "What were you…told…?"

"About your breakup? Nothing whatever," Thane answered. "And Shepard has not said one word against you. But I can read between the lines. You were hurt when she died. Then you were afraid when she returned to you. And you lashed out in fear and pain at the one who triggered them."

It was such a clinical, non-condemning breakdown that Alenko laughed uncomfortably. "Yeah."

"Do you blame her?" Thane asked after a few silent moments.

"For what?" But Alenko thought he knew where this was going.

"For leaving you."

Alenko swallowed hard. "She didn't _leave_."

Thane nodded approval, though whether of the words or the tone Alenko wasn't sure. "You must decide whether you are willing to brave the risk of that loss again. If you are not, then I must insist you stay away from her, for both your sakes. If you are, then you must prepare to fight against her enemies and her demons."

Alenko's blood grew icy in his veins.

"She is drowning, Kaidan, as are so many others. But it is her to whom we all look, upon her shoulders that the hopes of the galaxy rest. Strength must come from somewhere, and no man's, no woman's, strength is infinite. Friends to help shoulder the burdens, she has those. But you were more than her friend, and helped carry different burdens. This is no longer the time of catching dragonflies. Please give serious thought to everything I've said." With that, Thane patted his shoulder in a friendly manner, and withdrew leaving Alenko to frown at the exercise equipment.


	189. Do Not Go Gentle

To discover the extent of Kaidan's ignorance with regards to Shepard initially shocked Thane. Only after leaving Kaidan with his parting advice—advice he'd been planning to share for some time, but which required a decent segue so as not to come out of nowhere—had he meditated on the matter and realized that, perhaps, he shouldn't have been shocked at all. And that, perhaps, it was less ignorance and more…things Kaidan was half-aware of, but about which he lacked the words to make tangible sense of.

If he had been completely ignorant, there was no way he could have touched Shepard's heart to begin with.

Thane sighed inwardly. It was easy to advise Kaidan, steer him in the right direction. Harder was trying to advise Shepard. Because however willing Kaidan might be to fix what was broken, Shepard couldn't earnestly let the injury heal without having a few things pointed out to her.

Namely that, painful as it was, frightening as it might be, she had to confront the damage, _then_ commit either to distancing herself or to allowing the schism to close. That meant facing trust issues.

Thane was not a romantic, nor did he consider himself a man of much imagination. However, he knew two things: injured creatures tended to protect those injuries, and Shepard _had_ been grievously injured. It was something she would numb herself to, something she would avoid looking at. But she had to look at it, to acknowledge the damage done.

How else could she decide to give Kaidan a second chance and do so without setting him up to fail? The back of her mind, where awareness of injury stood, would try to protect the whole from further pain. Splinters hurt. Sometimes it was easier to leave them alone and ignore them than do anything constructive about them.

"You're huffing mightily today," Shepard remarked wryly.

"Yes," Thane agreed, regarding her across the table at the little tea shop in which they sat. It was quiet, and one might speak freely without being overheard. "I'm troubled on your behalf, _siha._ It leads me to trespass into your private affairs."

Shepard shifted uneasily. "Okay."

"You drew me out of a dark place. You gave me back my son. While I may not have atoned for the lives I have taken, you have given me the opportunity to put a stop to much that is evil in the galaxy. You have been a very good friend to me, unpracticed as I am with friendship. It is important to me that I honor that gift."

She didn't look unnerved or uncomfortable anymore. Merely concerned.

Thane crushed the small surge of regret that he was unable to fill Kaidan's place, to be her strength and companion, to walk the stars with her, and ensure that her brilliance shone brightly for those who needed it.

He was dying. He could love her, but he couldn't _stay_ with her. Better to simply ensure that she and Kaidan had a fighting chance, that neither unintentionally sabotaged the delicate cryptid that was A Second Chance.

"As your friend, who wants to see you strong and content, if contentment in this life can be found: do you trust Kaidan Alenko?"

She opened her mouth, but the 'yes' which would normally have come out as a reflexive answered didn't come. She struggled with the word, but her eyes slowly slipped down to look at her tea, her hands wrapped around the cup as if to anchor herself. Finally, "I trust him with my life." The words came out bleak, and answered the question. Yes, she trusted him with her life, but not with anything else.

Thane gently wrapped his hands around hers.

She swallowed hard, refusing to look up as though ashamed. "That's not enough, is it?"

"Not to fix what has broken. You are hurt, and that hurt makes you afraid. Many would argue you have every right to feel that way. Which is why I ask you, if you decide that it is in _your_ best interests to try again with him, then do so fairly. Let him prove to you, one day at a time, whether he is to be trusted. Else 'might' and 'possibility' will interfere."

"Okay."

Good. He was telling her things she was already aware of. "If you make up your mind to trust, then it will be an act of will. Neither of you will be helped if you resolve to trust him only with what _you think_ he can bear. So all or nothing."

The bright eyes closed. "Anything else?"

Thane considered. "Don't be afraid, _siha_. A man who caused you pain out of malice, you would never tolerate. Not for an instant."

There it was. The deep-rooted heart of fear, that little corrosive kernel burrowed in her soul which only careful prodding and deft hands could find, expose, and at least turn up to face the light of day. Most of Shepard's doubts tended to be self-doubts.

She nodded.

He let her wrestle with whatever was in her mind until she unwound her hands from her cup to hold his fingers.

"If I may ask, what was it that you saw?"

Shepard opened reddened eyes, then held his gaze. "He was my Irikah. He woke me up."

"Ah."

There. A spark kindled behind her bright eyes, the possibility of fighting for this one thing she wanted _for herself_ , this one thing she would doubtless label as 'selfish' simply out of habit, the strength to push back against doubt, against anger turned inwards, against the fear of more pain.

She would need to remind herself every day, he was sure, until one day she found she'd overcome those hurdles. But she was in the right frame of mind now, awakened the idea of fighting for something _she_ wanted, for something that was _personal_. Awakened, too, to the idea that it wasn't wrong for her to want something that didn't serve the needs of the many.

-J-

Author's Note: the title is taken from the Dylan Thomas poem of the same name. Specifically, I had the last couplet in mind: "Do not go gentle into that good night./Rage, rage against the dying of the light."


	190. Against the Dying of the Light

Shepard meant to visit Alenko. But after her talk with Thane, she couldn't bring herself to return to the hospital. Fortunately, Thane dropped her off at the _Normandy_ with a gentle 'please think about all I've said.'

Shepard doubted very much, as she watched his retreating back, that anyone else could have had that conversation with her and done so profitably. The man should have made psychology his second career.

The only thing to do was the throw herself on the treadmill. So she climbed on, put in the settings and began to walk, jog, then run, at the prescribed intervals and paces until she trotted along at a clip conducive to hard thinking.

 _How much do you know about all this?_

 _I know what he has told me, what you have told me, and some things I have conjectured for myself. I know that doubt is the core of both your troubles: you wish to forgive, to try again. But you doubt, and it makes forgiveness difficult. Under pressure, you will stick to the doubt unless you are aware of it and prepared to combat it._

He never absolved or condemned anyone. Not her. Not Alenko. He wasn't interested in who was right and who was wrong—which was something of a relief to Shepard, because 'right' and 'wrong' weren't tools to fix something that was broken.

And without being asked, though surely being gently coaxed into doing so, she'd shared herself as Thane once shared himself. Her family. The loss of them. The cold, empty years that followed—empty but for service. Then Alenko, who breathed warmth into her chill soul, made her realize she was alive and that maybe, just maybe, she didn't want too much, wasn't reaching for more than she should. Then the loss. The pain. The doubts that still ate at her.

Strangely, as was unusual when the Illusive Man came up, there had been no anger for him. His character had been a data point, relevant only because the story couldn't be told without mentioning him. For once, the mention passed without the anger and resentment that usually kindled…but not without a mean amusement at the egomaniac relegated to a category of 'doesn't really matter.'

And Thane attentively soaked up the information like a sponge—and just as quietly. He didn't offer her any insight he might have possessed. He was here to counsel her, not to provide advantages. Because however much she sometimes felt she and Alenko were at war, Thane clearly disagreed.

 _Why are you so interested in this?_

 _All who care for you are interested in your wellbeing. But if you really mean 'why am I involving myself in your personal business?' the answer is simple: because I know what it is to lose such a one to me, as Kaidan is to you. It is not something I would like to see you live with. So, dear friend, it's time to wake from your second sleep. This time, your strength and courage must go to face those battles in which the losses and gains affect only you. I imagine you will find fighting Reapers easier, but I encourage you not to give up this fight, or let go quietly._

He'd let her process this. She hadn't realized how much avoidance she'd been employing where Kaidan Alenko was concerned, but this conversation with Thane, if nothing else, exhibited the 'I'll deal with tough stuff later' attitude she'd adopted. Deferment didn't solve problems; it meant they were tougher when they had to be faced.

 _All creatures attempt to avoid pain when they can, siha. And you've a higher tolerance than most. I don't counsel you to face it if you don't think the outcome is worth it. If you feel the pain will be more than you can bear, if you don't think this is something that can be fixed, then I encourage you to distance yourself from Kaidan. For his sake, as well as your own._

She hadn't recognized the subtext at the time, and couldn't hazard a guess as to whether Thane had meant her to catch it, or if there was simply no way to say what he was saying without that subtext in there: _don't give the man false hope._

Hmm.

 _I can't see past the war effort._ It shocked her, then and now, how pathetic an attempt to hide those words represented.

His face hadn't shown the same disgust hers had. _I don't see how that's relevant. You, yourself, are a war asset, and a valuable one. What does it profit the war effort if you continue in this doubt-filled, pain-filled limbo that's been established? Both these things weaken you when you need your strength most. If his companionship makes you stronger, then does it not benefit the war effort? There is nothing selfish in you wishing to love and be loved._ _Nothing_ _._

It was the first hard bite in his tone, and his hands contracted over hers so tightly she nearly protested. But she recognized the gesture for what it was: trying to will her to accept an idea he knew would be difficult for her. _Thank you, Thane._

 _It is the truth. And if you asked any of those who are close to you, they will tell you the same, and be shocked that you didn't believe it._

 _I've always been lucky with my friends_.

 _Yes, you have been._ There was a thickness in his tone, as if he wanted to chuckle over something, but preferred not to share with her. _And, in case you need to hear it: Jalissa is well worthy of being loved._

 _Do I know how to fight this battle?_

 _You know it._

 _Then there's no excuse, is there?_

 _Only a choice._

Shepard earnestly weighed the choice, everything that brought her to that point.

She would _not_ let Cerberus—who set that wedge—keep hurting her with it.

And no one knew how to say 'screw you' like a marine.

-J-

Author's Note: As with the last chapter, the title is taken from a line in the Dylan Thomas poem "Do not go gentle."


	191. Reassurance

"Don't freak out. It's just a graze."

The first words out of Shepard's mouth, which preceded her actual appearance, puzzled Alenko to the point that he he wanted to demand what was wrong before she finished entering the room.

He managed to refrain from doing so, which was fortunate. Once she was in he needed no explanation. The first words out of his mouth were relics of his childhood and the only thing he could think of that would not sound remotely like 'freaking out.' "Ooh, that's an 'ouch.'"

The wound was not fresh, but had not finished healing despite the faint sheen of a medigel seal. It would certainly scar and was the first injury she couldn't really hide. Well, of those he knew about and if one didn't count bruises. "Let me have a look," he wiggled his fingers for her to come closer.

"It's _just_ a graze," she repeated dryly, her posture radiating unease. The wound seemed to cause her some distress—though he decided that only someone who really knew her would see 'distress' and not a wish to avoid offending delicate sensibilities with gruesome battle damage.

It wasn't _that_ bad.

She was watching for recoil, to see if the injury had a bad effect. It was good to know she still reposed some trust in his unbiased opinions…except his opinions on this point were hardly unbiased. In his experience, facial scars left anyone who had them very self-conscious, even (or sometimes especially) when they were not usually so. "Team medic. Bring that over here," he answered in mock sternness, pointing to the floor by his bed.

Shepard sighed, but she also obeyed—and slipped the traditional snack cake contraband to him stealthily once she was close enough. "I didn't know you were a _fussy_ addict," she noted mildly, not without humor.

"Yeah, I know." Alenko tilted her head this way and that, completely ignoring the snack cake. "Crabby, crabby, crabby…Shepard…is this a _knife_ stroke?" Thankfully it had missed her eye. Shepard was very lucky, he decided. From what he could interpret from the shape of the wound, the blow had come as a slash, but probably one intended to simply ward her off, force her to move away.

It wasn't like her to let enemies get that close.

"No, it's a cupcake, they were out of—"

"Hey. Being serious." He took hold of one of her shoulders—surprised to find it bonier beneath his hand than memory indicated it should be—and gave her a gentle shake.

Shepard's mouth curved, her eyes diverting to the ceiling. "Yes, it's a knife stroke. Nothing really damaged but my vanity. I didn't know I _had_ a sense of vanity, but apparently I do." After a moment her expression grew serious. In an uncharacteristic expression of uncertainty, she fingered the lower part of the wound. "It's not… _really_ bad, is it?"

Alenko knew that, unlike most people, Shepard really did want an answer—whether she liked the answer or not was immaterial. Fortunately, beauty was all in the eye of the beholder and, while Shepard was not (strictly speaking) a beautiful woman, she was definitely a striking one.

And the prettiest girl in the ward, came the nonsensical finishing thought.

"Not really bad. Facial wounds tend to make a person self-conscious. It'll wear off if in time. I promise." It was good to be able to give that assurance. He was reasonably certain no one else had mentioned this side effect to her. "Apart from that, I bet it pairs well with that 'go kill it' look of yours."

Shepard leaned back then gave him one of those rare wolfish grins that preceded a truly snappy comeback. The grin abolished the tentative relief his original words elicited. No, he thought wryly, she wouldn't want anyone to see that sort of unguarded look.

 _Anyone_. He wasn't so far into her good graces that she'd dispense with keeping her more human moments and expressions largely to herself. And yet…some of the barriers were down, apparently without her realizing it was so. It gave him hope.

"Oh, hey…" He took her hand, pressed it over his heart. He felt her reflexive move to jerk away, but was glad when she overrode it. Easier to miss was the flicker of emotion on her face, a precursor to the feeling of walking on eggshells. "Feel that? Pulse just jumped about ten beats per minute…so if that was your 'I'm going to get you for that' look, then your 'go kill it' look's going to give people heart attacks."

When in doubt, apply humor.

Shepard face-palmed as soon Alenko let her hand go. She seemed to have forgotten she had two hands, and hadn't exhibited a desire to free hers from his before he released her. "You know what? _Clearly_ you're getting stir crazy."

"That's true," Alenko nodded then continued shiftily, "it's really boring in here. But you know…if _someone_ signs my hall pass, I'm officially allowed to shuffle around the wards. The _hospital_ wards," he added before Shepard's teeth-bared grin could fully manifest. "You're a little slow today, Shepard," he noted, tapping the back of her hand gently.

"So, if _someone_ signs your hall pass, huh?" Shepard mused. "You sure you're up for it?"

"As long as I keep the biotics offline I'm clear." The question raised an issue that had never come up: the traditional marine mindset of 'get out of the hospital as quickly as possible, consequences be damned.' "I don't play games with my health, Shepard. I want out and a relapse kind of impedes the process of getting out."

Shepard smiled tentatively. "I've said something like that before. All right, all right, I'll get your stupid hall pass."

Alenko watched her head out in search of someone from whom she could obtain said hall pass—however metaphorical. He enjoyed his shuffles with Thane, but he would enjoy a shuffle with Shepard more.

Conversations with Shepard usually benefitted from leisurely walks.


	192. Glimmer

"We might be pulling out soon, so I wanted to stop in one more time," Shepard declared with a sigh. She seemed to perk up upon seeing he was up and out of bed, fully dressed and looking out the window.

"Where to—can you tell me?" Alenko asked hopefully, but not with blind optimism. The Normandy—ship, crew and missions—had always been fairly classified. This was just the first time he hadn't shared in the need-to-know loop while the ship flew Alliance colors.

Shepard measured out what she wanted to say and how she wanted to say it. Finally, she came up with: "I'm trying to broker an alliance between…old enemies."

"I don't need more than that," Alenko said, when the silence became indicative of her reticence to say too much more. He hadn't mentioned—felt no desire to mention—Wrex's visit, or his conversation with Thane afterwards, and he doubted Wrex would say anything about it. He knew Thane wouldn't.

"Thanks." Conversation lapsed as she came to stand by the window, frowning out at the Presidium Commons below. As the silence stretched, the lines in her face began to etch themselves deeply.

"So, what's on your mind? You're kind of quiet," he prompted gently.

Shepard shook her head. "This isn't the time." Something in her tone, though, seemed to suggest she was hiding behind the excuse.

Given the state of the galaxy, Alenko thought, there was no time like the present. "Sure it is. I'm here, and you're there, and Joker's not lurking on the comm. I'd say now's pretty good."

Shepard gave a 'kh', an abbreviated laugh. "No, he's not." She turned around, leaning on the glass. When the silence dragged out, she straightened up. "We're good, after…everything." Not a question, merely a preface. "But what I want to know is…can we get past Horizon?"

No one who didn't know her well would understand what it had cost her to ask that question, to drag that issue out into the open instead of letting it rest in peace.

He had assumed the answer was 'yes,' she could see it on his face. She was the one with doubts—doubts that conflicted with what she wanted. Then again, of the two of them she was the more likely to still feel the backlash, even if she'd let go of the contention. She wasn't the one who walked away.

Alenko shifted, holding out an arm. "Come over here." He twitched his fingers for her to do so.

Shepard paused for a moment, then sidled over, letting him drape his arm across her shoulders, loose and friendly, warm and reassuring. The skin at her neck went instantly cold, unused to the contact of flesh on flesh. It occurred to Alenko that Shepard's life was full of people who carried pain in their hands.

"I'd like to, Shepard. As friends. As…more than friends." She uncrossed her arms, the fingers of one of her hands twisting around his. The bony digits gripped tightly. "I mean…I dunno."

Shepard nodded, willing to take the statement for what it was.

Alenko's fingers tightened when she would have pulled away to leave. He couldn't play catching dragonflies. He had to remind himself of the fact. "I just like having you in my life."

Shepard pursed her lips, found that for the last few minutes she had not been looking him in the face—unusual for her. She did so now, finding the familiar earnest intensity in his expression. For once, all his cards were on the table. The emergency exit was blocked. "So…how do we fix it?" She'd never had a broken relationship before. It was all she could do to approach repairing it the way she would approach a tactical problem: take opinions, make a plan, carry out that plan, adapt as necessary.

Alenko took her other hand in his, looked at the interlaced fingers for a moment before looking her in the face again. "Maybe you should just know that I'm not seeing anyone, and that I still care."

He'd hit the right words, and it showed in the easing of tension lines around her mouth and eyes, as though a bright light began to peep from behind a heavy curtain. Hope. Something to _hope_ for—something that had nothing to do with the state of the galaxy or anything so far in the future it seemed unobtainable. A hope that was hers, something she could hold onto in these dark days.

"Hey, look, there's a war on and things…happen. I just needed you to know that. Because _that's_ how we're going to get past Horizon." On inspiration Alenko kissed the back of the hand not knotted with his, like putting a stamp on a handwritten letter.

Shepard nodded, reassured by the concrete wording: _we are going_. It was more than she had when she walked in; she was in a position where she would take any good news she could get. She shared the sentiment of needing him somewhere within the bounds of her life. The closer to her, the better for her. She squeezed his hands. "Guess all the duracrete and rebar I can find isn't going to help, is it?"

The joke didn't fall completely flat, but it was far from hilarious. "Nope. Bullets and explosives won't do it either. Just in case you were wondering." His joke had better success.

She gave a bemused exhale. "Damn. I understand explosives and bullets."

"You sound like Garrus."

Shepard snorted ruefully. It was true.

"Tell you what: the next time you come down, we'll go for another walk. Like we used to when there was such a thing as 'downtime.'"

She squeezed his hand. "I'll hold you to it." Suddenly, as if she might lose the opportunity—or her nerve, Shepard had never been the most confident person when it came to more-than-friendly relationships—she dropped a kiss against his cheekbone and whirled out. Before she crossed the threshold, "I'll call you."


	193. Rearranged

"I'm very sorry, Captain. But I must ask that we delay our departure," Adrien Victus declared.

If asked, Shepard thought he did look a little embarrassed at having to ask. It was in the way he nervously flicked his mandibles and kept cocking his head to the right, back to vertical, and back to the right again. "Why?"

Victus' rolled the answer around for a moment. When he spoke, his tone suggested he was trying to be as level as he could without violating his own conscience on the matter. Arguably, the effort of _trying_ to answer her question at all was worth something, since technically he could tell her 'none of your business' and leave it at that. "Something Hierarchy-related that does not, in any way, concern your ship or your crew. It's just…internal workings…and they do need my attention just now."

Shepard nodded with a sigh, running a hand through her hair. Perhaps it should surprise her she hadn't had to suspend pulling out for diplomatic reasons before now. But things did happen, and Victus _was_ the head honcho of his people.

Yes, she should be surprised this hadn't happened before. Often.

"Alright. Fair enough. Is it _possibly_ going to affect my ship or my crew?" She couldn't help the slightly suspicious question.

Victus grinned at her, the grin of a man who knew _exactly_ why she was asking and, had their situations been reversed, would probably have asked the same question himself, for most of the same reasons. "Absolutely not," came the prompt, but not too prompt, answer.

She nodded again, mental order restored. This was the Citadel, and her crew wouldn't complain if given a few more hours to poke around and take in the sights. She wasn't sure what she would do. "Okay. Hours or days?"

"Can you put off departure until tomorrow? I hope it will take less, but I'd rather tell you 'all done' early than ask for more time."

Shepard checked the chrono on her omnitool. Must be an intricate snarl, rather than an unusually stressful one. Then she calculated the time it would take to get to the Summit's location, near Sur'Kesh, whose position as a Council-race homeworld, it's generally central location, and the fact that it wasn't under fire by the Reapers being only a few of the reasons it was ideal for the meeting.

"We've still got a few days…although I'm surprised you want to spend so many waiting out in space," Victus admitted.

Shepard grinned. "Oh, it's not me. I don't mind giving them space to move around. But Krogan _dignitaries_ make C-Sec nervous. Poor Bailey nearly lost it when I told him about them. 'It's bad enough you're so explosion prone, but you went and brought _help_? Cheese and rice, Shepard—there's a war on! We _don't_ need drama that's wrapped up in diplomatic bullshit!'" Her imitation wasn't fabulous, but she'd never been much of a drama nerd.

She did like Bailey. But seeing him snatch his hat off so he could throw it on his desk and run both hands through his hair before giving her a baleful 'why are you making things hard for me?' look? It had taken all the stoicism she'd learned in her career as a Marine not to laugh. He'd simmered down a little—only a little—after her assurances that while Wrex and the Shaman might _respond_ to trouble, they weren't there to start it. And they'd keep those two young men on a tight leash, since the lads were meant to be an honor guard, and an honor guard couldn't very well wander around without the fellow he was guarding.

Victus chuckled. "Poor C-Sec, indeed."

She wondered if the story had circulated back to him through channels. "Okay. Until tomorrow, then. Say… ten in the morning?" She pulled a number out of nowhere, her way of rolling with the punches. Besides, the Primarch was right: krogan really didn't like being in enclosed spaces if they didn't have to be. Griz, Raux, Wrex, and the Shaman were exhibiting model behavior for people who were accustomed to a lot more elbow space.

"Ten. I hope that will be sufficient." With that, Victus disembarked, leaving Shepard to wonder vaguely what she was going to do to fill up the time.

She knew how to fill up everyone else's time, that was easy. But the Citadel wasn't a novelty for her…and part of her brain was already trying to read her the riot act for overcompensating in an awkward situation back at the hospital. Fortunately, for now, most of her could ignore this lecturing.

Thane was right: she could play it safe or she could play for keeps.

But she _would_ like to find a nice, happy medium that didn't involve sporadic outbursts of publically-aired _feelings_.

Still…Alenko hadn't complained. And that grin he'd been wearing left her smiling like an idiot for most of the trip back to the ship.

Her face actually ached a little from all the smiling.

Laughter was good medicine, come to think of it, maybe even better than just having something to do to distract one from being convalescent. And that seemed to be Alenko's biggest complaint: he was _bored_ , and wasn't used to having to deal with prolonged boredom.

Oh…hey. That might work…or at least help in some dubious fashion. Her sense of humor was, after all, sometimes criticized as not being overly developed in the direction most people felt was usual.

Shepard felt herself grinning again, though. It felt a little too toothy to be an entirely _nice_ smile, but if she could laugh about _that_ , there was no way he wouldn't get _at least_ a chuckle. If the time was filled with something—even something that wasn't really constructive—then that was a solution to boredom.

If it didn't drive him crazy, first.

"EDI, send out a notice extending shore leave until zero seven hundred tomorrow. Something minor came up, nothing to be concerned about."


	194. Facepalm

"I have a surprise for you," Shepard declared, eyes dancing with mischief.

She must be getting ready to pull out, Alenko mused. One did not see a mischievous Shepard on under normal circumstances. "I take it I won't have you hanging around much longer?"

"You know how it is. Adapt, improvise, overcome," Shepard sighed.

"You or me?"

She considered, then shrugged.

He didn't bother asking where she was going. She either couldn't tell him or didn't want to drag the bad news into a place of recovery. He could catch the media-spun gist of things on the ANN if he really wanted to. Specifically, he could watch _Battlespace_. Shepard's news was frontline news—and her news was probably screened by Shepard herself.

Not that the Captain—he found himself inordinately pleased over the promotion—would suppress or distort the reports…but she would certainly ensure that those reports did not endanger any operation or operative. And Allers—cheerfulyl unconcerned—admitted Shepard was ready to evict her via airlock if things didn't stay amiable.

"So, what's the surprise? Does it have moving parts?" he asked.

"Kinda."

"Batteries?"

"Nope."

"Yes to moving parts, no to batteries…" he mused, then shook his head, shrugging. "Can't be a mechanical pyjak or plushy-thing of some description."

"Nope to both." Shepard pulled out a small OSD. "Where's your omnitool?"

Alenko reached over to the shelf under his bedside table (aware that he was about to fall out if he couldn't get his balance back quickly). "Here you go."

Shepard loaded the OSD in, frowned at the unfamiliar interface, then smiled again. "A little something to keep you company. I call her…Bubbles."

"Bubbles?" Alenko repeated, just as a flickering VI figure shimmered into being.

He choked on a laugh that mingled with Shepard's own chuckle. The VI looked a little like Shepard. More like a fanboy's daydream of Shepard, which was why it was funny. The VI stood about four inches shorter than the real thing, skinnier (and, paradoxically, curvier), with too much makeup and a uniform that didn't quite fit. "What the—"

Shepard's continuing laugh (or, rather, a successive one) was drowned out by an enthusiastic, "Hey there, sailor! This is no time for R&R! We need to get your ass back in the game!"

Shepard came and perched at the foot of his bed, handing over the omnitool.

"Wow…that's definitely _not_ you," Alenko noted, biting his lip. The voice was a close approximation, but anyone who knew Shepard well would know it as a fake.

"Wait until she crashes," Shepard advised, "I got it patched to about forty-five minutes instead of the original twenty-eight point nine…but she's glitchy as hell."

"Don't be jealous, Captain," the VI responded, offering a parody of Shepard's go-kill-it glare.

It was so bad that Alenko put the omnitool down and covered his face in both hands. "Wow."

"Laughter is good medicine. I expect you to be up to pulling the processor out a geth by the time I get back," Shepard declared in mock solemnity.

"Are you kidding? Having this for company? I'll get better just to _escape_." He shook his head and was saved from having to turn the VI off when 'Bubbles' suddenly glitched, the image convulsed, and she gave a garbled declaration that the galaxy was in grave danger and that she 'should go.'

"Her key phrase is 'hey Bubbles' if you don't want to activate her manually. And…she's not _quite_ legal, so…be careful. I've got an authentication tag on her—since the personality's mine—but all the same…" Shepard waved expressively.

"Gotcha." He glanced at his omnitool, wondering if Shepard had a real motive in leaving this VI here…or if she genuinely believed that humor would help. Maybe a bit of both. Maybe they were one and the same. Not that he minded.

"All right." Shepard checked her omnitool's clock. "I have twenty minutes to get to the _Normandy_. But I'll be back when I can."

Leaving was always awkward; not even repeated visits had, so far, managed to alleviate the transition.

"Be safe out there, Shepard. It's getting really ugly." He wouldn't mind it as much if he was allowed to get out and do something constructive…but right now he was thoroughly benched. At this point, he could be happy rolling bandages; at least it would be _something_.

Shepard's mouth thinned, her brows knit together, and her eyes seemed to occlude. She didn't have to say anything. For one moment it was plainly written across her face: _you don't know the half of it._ Then the look vanished. "Will do. Hang tough."

Once Shepard was gone, Alenko closed the crash alert message and frowned at his omnitool. "Hey, Bubbles."

"Hey yourself, sailor!" the VI responded, coalescing. "I just took one for the team, so I'm a little woozy! Would you like to calibrate my functions?"

"Yes. Open a new voice/face recognition entry."

"I love meeting new people! Careful while you tweak me—I'm ticklish!"

Ouch. Not really subtle, was it? "Just open the new profile."

"Okay—so let's get introduced properly! I'm Commander Bubbles Shepard, Alliance Navy! Who are you?"

"Major Kaidan Alenko."

"Major Kaidan! I like that! We Alliance-types should stick together!"

Did this thing _not_ talk in exclamation points? Someone had a field day programming her movements. The real Shepard wasn't nearly so…bouncy. He knew that firsthand.

"I have three visual themes available. Would you like to review them now?"

"No, thanks. You're fine." He had his suspicions about those three settings: one Alliance blue, one armor, and one that would make him facepalm.

"Well, if you like blue, who am I to argue? I take it we have work to do?"

"Not just yet. Go to standby."

"Aye-aye, Major!" the VI saluted cheekily, then turned off.

Alenko exhaled wearily. That thing was going to drive him nuts. And he had the nasty feeling that he'd be doing it to himself, because rolling his eyes at it really _did_ boost his stuck-in-the-hospital morale.


	195. Integrate

"Come on, Wrex. I'm _still_ not gonna arm wrestle you," Shepard laughed, shaking her head and waving a hand.

A pause. "I'd do it," the dark-haired male who usually hung around Shepard's periphery piped up, grinning.

"No," Shepard declared simply, still amused.

"Come on, Shepard. Pup's gotta know where he belongs in the scheme of things," Wrex wheedled, putting his elbow on the table with a grin. "It's _good_ for them."

"Vega knows _exactly_ where he belongs: backing me up in the field. You're not going to interfere with that, are you?"

For a moment, Raux though Wrex might actually push the issue, but the crusty old Clan Chief simply snorted. "We'll try it when she's not looking."

"If you do, better have a good story for why your arm is broken. Wrex is impish like that." Again, no concern even though the matter began to take on serious edges.

"And if the excuse isn't good?" Wrex asked, tossing back his coffee.

"Well, I do know who put the idea into his impressionable mind, so I'd stick blame where it rightfully belongs—you're old enough to know better." She grinned at her companion who muttered 'gee thanks, Lola.' "I guess I'd have EDI pipe that elevator music they like on the Citadel into your room at night. Or while you're working out. Or closeted with the Shaman or those kids you brought. In the head. Anywhere she can reach, really. It'll follow you every waking moment like a bad smell. You'll never get away from it."

Wrex glanced to where the fancy mech sat with the pilot. The mech raised a hand and waved innocently to the Clan Chief, then apparently explained the joke, because the pilot let out a barrage of laughter.

"Huh. That's dirty, Shepard."

"When it doesn't have any lyrics? How does that work?" came the impish answer before the Captain disappeared behind her coffee, quite confident of having won the round.

Wrex poured himself another cup of coffee, apparently content, even though he'd lost.

Raux had known that humans were integrated in a way that krogan weren't. He hadn't known they let their females be Battlemasters, or something like it. But it was clear that Shepard possessed many of the qualities Raux associated with a Battlemaster. She knew when to laugh and when to break out the discipline. She might be physically soft, like most species, but there was a toughness to her that most of the females—even most of the males—on this ship lacked, the kind of competence only _survivors_ ever achieved.

' _Shepard's the worst excuse for a human I ever saw. Make no mistakes—she's go the hearts, lungs and livers of a krogan, and if you piss her off, I'm not sure I can save your stupid asses.'_

But, as was common with real krogan Battlemasters, Raux felt no need to test himself against her. He didn't see _how_ she could overcome a krogan with a grudge, but he believed she could if she had to.

-J-

Griz refused to hover around the Clan Chief as nervously as Raux was doing. For this reason, he ended up at the Shaman's table with a handful of Shepard's younger crew members. Usually, they would pick the Shaman's brain—kids eager for stories—but today the Shaman was gently picking theirs.

Griz knew why he and Raux were here: as far as krogan went, they were young enough to learn, to see something new and really _see_ it, not write it off as 'not krogan, not relevant.' So he'd done his best to keep his eyes peeled and his ears open.

He didn't like space travel, but he'd endure it.

"It does take some getting used to," Campbell mused, pushing the last few scraps about on her plate with her bread.

"Is it weird that I'd rather be in a spaceship than a submarine?" Copeland asked, scrunching his too-malleable face up. "I mean, if the hull breaches, bad stuff happens either way, right?"

"No," several people answered at once, which gave way to the benefits of 'in case of hull breach' in a spaceship vs. in a submarine. Namely, it was over with faster in space, and space travel was a lot safer and more comfortable than undersea stuff back home.

Griz had to think about this. He'd never seen the ocean before. It struck him as problematic that he wasn't sure whether Tuchanka _had_ oceans. It wasn't a detail that mattered, previously, but now the topic of seafaring and spacefaring had come up, he felt woefully ignorant.

He didn't think he'd like being underwater, or even being _on_ the water, regardless of craft availability. Krogan weren't exactly buoyant.

And when the Shaman began asking questions about marine life, Griz felt sure that he wasn't the only one who didn't know whether Tuchanka had seas: the humans trotted out the creepiest, weirdest, nastiest-looking specimens of sea life they could think up or remember between them—pulling up pictures on their omnitools when words failed—as if in hopes of impressing the Shaman with the weirdness Tuchanka lacked (but made up for in other ways).

And the Shaman didn't help either: he merely encouraged their chatter and didn't address whether or not Tuchanka had seas capable of housing weird water-creatures. He only laughed and noted that he couldn't help noticing that none of these 'monsters' had any kind of _scale_ to give an accurate representation of size.

The humans had the grace to look a little embarrassed, which told Griz 'size' was something being sidestepped. Whether because the humans didn't _know_ how big (or small) some of this stuff was or because it was better to leave it to the imagination, he didn't know.

Griz shivered inwardly. With crap like that roving the oceans, who'd _want_ to go underwater or too far from shore? It said something about the humans: they didn't worry about weirdness running (or swimming) amok until they had to deal with it.


	196. Quandry

_To: Lt. James J. Vega, SSV Normandy_

 _From: Commandant Demelza Escobar, Vila Militar_

 _Lt. Vega:_

 _I'll introduce myself briefly: Commandant Escobar, N7, formerly posted at Vila Militar, currently overseeing and coordinating the special actions division. As you may or may not know, Vila Militar is the heart of and main training facility for the N-program (of which your commanding officer is a graduate)._

 _Following a review of the recommendation of one of our graduates placed on July ninth, 2186, I am extending an invitation to you to join the Systems Alliance Special Forces Branch (career designation N). Understandably, it will be some time before Vila Militar is ready to accept new recruits, but consider a slot reserved for you, should you decide to take it._

 _I'll spare you the pep talk: ask that squirt Shepard to give it to you._

 _Semper fi, marine,_

 _Commandant D. Escobar_

-J-

Vega let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding (which made him realize that almost every muscle in his body had tensed up) while he read the short missive. Quite ignoring the reference to Shepard as 'that squirt,' the letter didn't seem probable…

July ninth…that was the same day the Reapers hit Earth. Somehow he did not think the commendation came from Shepard. He didn't know her well, but he suspected that if she had plans to push him into the N-program, she'd work him over now then, if anyone survived, she'd hand him over to the program with her good word.

War was something to be avoided, but he could see the practicality: a war like this would be a renaissance for the N-program. The best, strongest, ablest, cleverest leaders would be shaken to the top and—went the cold, hard line of logic—be willing to join a program that accepted their hard-won abilities with open arms. Re-integrating into a civilian life would be harder for some than for others; integrating into a program with others like themselves…that could reduce a lot of culture shock, bolster an already small, whittled-down-by-war, dedicated corps of people…it was a good solution that would help a lot of people cope.

His money, however, was on either Anderson or Forbes—though they wouldn't have seen him in action, which made the guess shaky. Unless the day the Reapers landed was 'as good a day as any other.' They had had him stationed as Shepard's security detail, after all.

Shepard would probably know which one it was (or why it wasn't either); from what he understood anyone who made it to N1 was designated 'a graduate.'

After further thought—and it made him a little nervous—he decided it might have been Anderson. That notable day when Anderson brought him in to meet Shepard formally came back to him, how Shepard, after examining him closely had said to Anderson 'I like him.'

She hadn't thought much of him in action, he reminded himself, remembering Shepard's sharp admonition about recklessness, the chastisement that seemed to burn through his defenses against that kind of thing.

But him? In the Special Forces? He liked being a marine well enough, he was good at it—without effort he was good at it. Being an N, though…the thought made his toes feel a little cold. He knew they didn't really 'make them' like Anderson anymore. The next generation, Shepard, was definitely a tough act to follow; all that secondhand information about her was bullshit. Didn't come close to the real thing, all the action, the continuous impetus that drove missions forward was a shrewd calculation.

All the Ns he'd met to date—all three he was aware of—presented the appearance of real thinkers.

It wasn't as though he was dumb. 'Big dumb marine' was three generations ago, even if the cliche hadn't worn off yet.

He was a good marine, and not because he tried…

He suddenly felt as if someone had taken this commendation letter and smacked him upside the head with it, while uttering the admonition 'try a little harder.'

He was always up for a challenge, but this wasn't like any other challenge he'd ever been presented with. Or maybe it was the first real challenge he'd ever been presented with, and everything else was just…practice. This 'challenge' felt like running into a brick wall.

There was an obvious answer to some of this confusion: ask Shepard herself. It was already clear by action (and word of mouth) that Shepard took her crewmen's concerns seriously. She had a reputation—listening to those who had served with her before—for keeping their best interests at heart…though she was usually quiet about doing so.

For a moment he smirked at the idea of the 'are you trying to ruin my beloved corps?!' speech…

...but as the smile reached its widest it faded. No, he wouldn't be likely to get that talk. She'd probably look at a printout of the commendation, look at him, and say 'hm,' in that way she had of doing it: it could mean anything or nothing.

 _You might not care if you live or die. But if you're_ _half_ _the soldier I think you are, we need you alive._

Thinking further back, she seemed more irritated by the fact that he hadn't really thought about slamming that shuttle back on Mars. He'd just…done it. His impression continued that if he had thought about it, or given evidence that he'd thought about it, she wouldn't have meant the comment about recklessness as a criticism; it would have been a friendly reminder.

…if you're half the soldier I think you are, we need you alive.

She'd sounded so grimly certain, like someone ready to pummel an argument home, that he had to smile about it. She would, too.

Vega re-read the letter. 'That squirt Shepard.' Now that seemed like a directive: go talk to Shepard. Because any sane person would want to know why Commandant Escobar was calling one of the most notorious N7s out there 'squirt.'


	197. In a Rut

Mordin Solus was exhausted. Exhausted and angry. Threadbare.

He sniffed, the squirming discomfort in his sinus a grounding sensation. Fatalism. Defeatism. Never his style. Never his philosophies.

Still, as he looked at the contorted features of the young female krogan, he wished he'd taken up smoking at some point. Bad habit to indulge never worked as well if bad habit was fresh or recently acquired. Familiarity. Routine.

He shook himself. "Time of death, thirteen nineteen, local time." His aide had probably already taken the information down—nice to be working with well-trained staff—but he needed the words. He sketched the Infinite Circle above the krogan's corpse, giving a silent prayer for her soul's passing—and the hope that when it reentered the galaxy, that galaxy would be recognizable and _better_.

As he stripped off his scrubs and wraps, he sifted his mind for the woman's name. Kurn. He needed the name.

The Female Shaman sat in her quarantine cell, knees drawn-up, head bowed. "Good afternoon, Doctor."

Always polite. Always calm.

Always afraid. Always grieving.

All of it so deeply felt. All of it kept obscured.

"Good afternoon. Feeling better?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you. And yourself?"

Empty courtesy on both sides. Still, courtesy allowed communication, prevented friction.

"Afraid bad news. Kurn…didn't make it."

"I see. Thank you for telling me." She shifted to a kneeling position, bowing her head, hands on her knees.

As he turned to go, she spoke again. "You should get some sun, Doctor."

Needed to consult latest test results. Compare to old results. See where trends occurred. Needed new plan of attack. So much to do, so little time: Female Shaman's health much improved from original condition, but still too frail. Also, last chance.

"I've survived this long. Get some sun, Doctor."

"Will consider it." Also considered possibility this was analogous to 'go take a swim.' Salarians amphibious; sun exposure prone to dehydrating sapients. "May take swim instead."

"Ah. Yes." He could almost hear her mental filing cabinet open and close as she put the data point aside.

Mordin withdrew, checking his messages as he went. Mostly unimportant. Messages from Wrex—inexpertly encrypted. Messages from colleagues—well-encrypted. Messages from nephew—no need for encryption.

He frowned at his workspace, not remembering the twisting corridors from the lab, to Female Shaman's quarantine cell, to his private office. He needed a swim, clear his head. Maybe bright bolt of inspiration would come. Now, his head felt clogged with fog and failure, sometimes near-miss success, but near-miss failure wasn't good enough. Still failure.

He rubbed his sinus as he headed for the recreational level of the facility.

No sign of Maelon. Maybe just as well; just thinking of his former student made him want to shoot something vital. Also, maybe better for Female Shaman, not having to see salarian who tried to 'help' and failed so spectacularly. Bad for morale. Needed good morale, positive outlook. As much as was possible. Proven correlation between speed of and efficacy in recovery and good attitude.

The water was bliss, and Mordin swam several laps before rolling into his back to float and think. Cool and refreshing didn't provide solutions, though. Did help clear his head.

Peace Summit would be happening soon. Good that Shepard was mediating. Unfortunately, Shepard straightforward. Turians, krogan, all straightforward. Usually. Dalatrass? Not so much.

Mordin forced his mind away from the Peace Summit. He couldn't affect it. Could only hope Dalatrass representing Salarian Union reasonable.

Hope didn't provide answers. Didn't solve problems. Merely fueled successive attempts in the wake of failure. Revitalized with near-success. But with only one subject left, absolute success needed.

Mordin shoved those thoughts away, too. Better take a minute to enjoy swimming. No pools on small spacecraft, and he fully anticipated his time on Sur'kesh would end quickly once Peace Summit ended.

He wondered if Female Shaman felt like prisoner. Hoped she wasn't simply biding her time to try ill-advised escape. He tried to be courteous, but seemed to lack some social graces. Oh well. Scientist, former STG, not Dear Abby.

Mordin climbed out of the pool some time later to find Padok Wiks hovering with a stack of datapads. One of them indicated the Summit would be occurring within the next few hours—that was one place where security was at a premium, the time, location, and the identities most of the attendees remained mostly unknown, supplied by conjecture and a few inescapable facts.

That meant he and Female Shaman might be gone within a few days. Wrex meant to leverage cure for Genophage. Shepard would back him; Wrex reasonable sort, already proved he could hold major groups in line. Also, not afraid to shoot a few dissidents if loudmouthed, grudge-blinded individuals threatened welfare of whole population. She would never admit it, but Mordin felt sure she was not above excising trouble to give the masses a second chance. Slippery slope, but sometimes necessary.

"Should warn you: when time comes to release female? Likely into Shepard's custody. Will probably involve Wrex. Make sure security knows: Wrex will bluster and fuss, but mostly posturing. Shepard's logic usually prevails. We don't want any accidents."

Padok nodded. Of all the salarians—it had been odd to be surrounded almost completely by his own people again after Omega and his time on the _Normandy_ —Padok was the most open to the idea of research to disable the Genophage.

Disable.

Previously, word had been 'cure.'

Mordin blinked several times, turning over the difference represented in the semantics. "Might tell Kirrahe. Knows Shepard."

Disable. Different from 'cure.' New thought vector. Get him out of rut he'd unwittingly fallen into.

How had Okeer handled Genophage with Grunt? Bypass. Evasion.

How had 'cured' status manifested in females? In simple words, bypass. Evasion. Ineffective. Caused strain on subjects' systems.

Common parlance phrases were 'cure Genophage' or 'fix Genophage.'

Maybe better to consider 'bypass Genophage' or 'evade Genophage.'

He needed to go back to the lab, needed to think, run models, postulate.


	198. Short Straws

Dalatrass Linron was not happy. Not in the slightest. And yet, she couldn't simply follow the example set by the asari and stay out of the matter. If the Salarian Union stayed out of it, took a hands-off approach, then that left short-sighted war-hawks calling the shots.

It wasn't that they weren't useful in their way, and Linron's personal conviction was that you really couldn't reason or negotiate with Reapers. Only if one thought in the short-term, and only if one had a knife hidden in hand for later.

However, the fact remained that soldiers were short-sighted. Adrien Victus and Jalissa Shepard were career soldiers. Their horizon stopped at 'once the Reapers are dead' and didn't extend any further.

She tried to suppress her disgust, both with career soldiers playing at politics and the asari for being so stupid as to let soldiers make complex decisions for which they were unfit. The asari might be staying out of the matter, but their refusal to get involved was almost a validation (with the safety net of complaining later that they had nothing to do with anything) for whatever the turian, the human, and the krogan—krogan!—cooked up between them.

This Summit was ridiculous. If anyone couldn't see the needs of the galaxy, they were too blind to live. This was no time for negotiations and she knew _exactly_ what the krogan were up to: they hoped to force something regarding the Genophage. Never mind that anything like that would take years to engineer, but the selfishness inherent in trying to put the galaxy over a barrel _now_ was revolting.

And, of course, the soldiers in the room would capitulate to such a demand for the sake of 'a few more troops.'

She adjusted her headdress and robes, glaring into the mirror.

Short-sighted. What happened once the Reapers were defeated? It would be the aftermath of the Rachni Wars all over again.

She knew it was unwise to go into this meeting in such a sour mood, but she'd been unable to suppress it. It was known that Shepard was a krogan apologist, being friends with the Clan Chief. Her judgment was clearly compromised in this matter, so why was _she_ being allowed such an integral part of all this? Because obviously her people put their faith in her voice at this Summit by not sending their own proper representative. Someone who could see past the target she had a line on.

It made Linron's skin crawl. Shepard and Victus should stick to running their war and let wiser heads worry about the rest. Each to what he was suited, then there was harmony.

As much as you could get, anyway, when dealing with sapients.

 _Damn_ the asari for being so wishy-washy! It was enough to make one want to vomit.

Linron emptied a glass of water, taking several deep breaths. It wouldn't do to go in there and let everyone know she was the one who got the short straw.

-J-

Eschelle was worried. She'd never seen Linron—a cousin on her father's side—so angry without concrete reason. She was also worried because Councilor Esheel—a second cousin on her mother's side—was worried. Esheel and Linron were both strong women, but very different in their kinds of strength.

Also in their politics.

Esheel knew she owed her positon to good luck on her part and bad luck on the part of her predecessor.

Linron had had time to grow comfortable in her position…and if anyone had asked Eschelle for her personal opinion, Eschelle would have suggested Linron was _not_ the person to send to this Summit. True, she'd held the post of Dalatrass for many years, had much experience, and in peacetime was a very wise leader.

But this wasn't peacetime, and Eschelle feared that would matter. More than that, Linron was used to dealing with people who were either her equals or who recognized her as an authority. These aliens certainly wouldn't fall into the latter category, and—if what Eschelle understood about humans from one of her brothers who had worked extensively with aliens—probably wouldn't see Linron as anything more than a sapient with an overdeveloped idea of her own importance and an underdeveloped sense of what was needful.

It was not a good foundation for talks, _especially_ if krogan were involved. Their short tempers were legendary, and if Eschelle could admit that Linron sometimes got on people's nerves as a tactic for getting her way then there was no way anyone else would miss it.

And in a small room, it didn't matter how short-sighted the krogan might be. Eschelle hoped the moderator—and voice of the Systems Alliance—would have the sense to keep a table or something between the krogan and everyone else.

Things really were dire if the best 'allies' available were so unpredictable. Then again, the batarians might be at the table if Kar'shan hadn't been decimated. That would have increased the possibility of voluble fireworks between attendees.

She knew what everyone knew about Captain Shepard: she wasn't likely to be happier making friendly overtures to batarians than the Salarian Union would feel about making those same overtures to the krogan…whatever they called themselves.

Her chrono beeped gently, prompting her to get up and knock on Linron's door. "Ma'am? Fifteen minutes to departure," she called gently.

"Thank you," came the flat response from the room.

Eschelle sighed inwardly. At the very least Linron sounded flat rather than the sharp annoyance she'd displayed when given the 'half hour to departure' notice. Linron hated having her omnitool beeping at her, so her aides were expected to stand in for the alarms most other people would program and manage themselves.

A moment later, grim-faced and apparently calm, Linron swept out of her room towards the shuttle bay. Straight backed, robes swishing, Eschelle could tell none of the Dalatrass' bad mood had abated.

What a pity Linron was the one who drew the short straw.


	199. Filibuster

The meeting room was uncomfortably full, not meant to accommodate eight people if two of them were krogan. The chairs in the room were shoved back, interspersed among the various dignitaries' aides. No one wanted to sit for this conference; doing so would give the impression of a weakened bargaining position.

Shepard frowned from the Primarch, to the Dalatrass, to Wrex, then to the innocent water jug no one had bothered to touch. She didn't know the Dalatrass' companion in any capacity, not even his or her name. The simmering resentment emanating from the Dalatrass made Wrex leer unpleasantly. The two of them silently feuding seemed to be chipping away at Victus' patience.

It was certainly eroding her own. "All right, brass tacks: the Reapers are pushing into our systems. We need a fleet to push them out. The turians can't commit resources to the larger plan unless some of the pressure is taken off their homeworld," Shepard announced brusquely. "They're asking for your support, Wrex."

"Of course they are." Wrex turned to the turian. "Unfortunately nothing in this galaxy is free."

Victus' mandibles drew in close to his chin, but he didn't seem surprised by this.

The Dalatrass, who gave the impression of looking for a reason to have a go at Wrex, broke in sharply, "The krogan is in _no_ position to make demands!"

Wrex drew himself to his full stature, reminding Shepard of a cobra flaring its hood. Neither Shepard nor Victus flinched, but the salarians recoiled slightly. "This _krogan_ has a name: Urdnot Wrex! And I'm not just some junkyard varren you unleashed every time your asses get in a sling," Wrex snarled. "I'm not seeing any reason for me to care if a few turians and salarians go extinct."

Shepard said nothing, exceedingly glad that she knew Wrex; right now he was just testing the political waters. He didn't do it very gracefully, but then again, krogan diplomacy was not Council-space diplomacy. And, she had to admit, it took some gall to ask the krogan to fight and die on Palaven when their species—if the Reapers were stopped—would go extinct from lack an inability to replenish their numbers.

"Trying to draw out negotiations will get you _nowhere,_ Wrex," Victus cut in frostily, his bright eyes fixing on Wrex, wholly nonplussed. "I have no time for it: tell me what you want."

"I'll tell you what I _need_ ," Wrex''s eyes flicked from Victus, to the Dalatrass, to Shepard, and back to Victus. "A cure for the Genophage."

"Absolutely not!" The Dalatrass stiffened in outrage.

Shepard's attention, mostly bent on keeping things from spiraling out of control, sent up a warning flag. "You found something?"

"The Genophage is _nonnegotiable_ ," the Dalatrass interrupted fiercely.

"What's your concern, Dalatrass?" Shepard asked simply, giving the salarian her attention. Whatever she was thinking, it didn't show on her face.

What Shepard _was_ thinking was that Wrex's demand didn't surprise her, and that he wouldn't ask if he didn't have a reason to believe it could be done. Her mind flashed back to Maelon's experiments on Tuchanka…

No. She _wouldn't_ be party to something like that. Never.

"We uplifted the krogan," the Dalatrass snapped. "We know them best."

Shepard's soft snort was drowned by Wrex's dramatic bellow, "You mean you _used_ us! To fight a war you couldn't win! It wasn't the salarians or the asari or even the turians who pushed back the Rachni! Krogan blood turned the tide! And now you want us to do it _again_!"

"And after that," the Dalatrass responded hotly, "you ceased to remain useful! The Genophage was the only way to keep your 'urges' in check."

Wrex snarled at this, the first break in what was otherwise diplomatic behavior for him.

Shepard pursed her lips. It sounded to her as if the Dalatrass simply liked having someone in the galaxy by the quad and wasn't eager to give that up. After all, the Genophage was the salarians' claim to fame; it was also a pointed example to other species that the salarians could just as easily whip up a Genophage tailored to someone _else's_ physiology.

"Dalatrass, you don't have to like him," Victus cut in, "but insulting him isn't going to help matters."

"I won't apologize for speaking the _truth_ ," the Dalatrass snarled.

"The concept of 'truth' is a philosophical debate for which we have no time. Right now there's a lot of opinion dressed up as fact floating around. Let's move forward," Shepard said flatly.

"The fact remains that—" Victus began.

"The fact remains," the Dalatrass cut him off, "that we uplifted the krogan to do one thing: wage war. It's all they know because it's all we wanted them to know."

"Then you created offenders and then punished them," Shepard retorted.

"We made a _rash_ choice," the Dalatras retorted, clearly disliking Shepard with every passing second—a feeling that was completely mutual, as far as Shepard was concerned. "We turned to the krogan in desperation; it's the same mistake you're about to make. No good can come of curing the genophage."

"Maybe. But I _believe_ Primarch Victus was speaking, Dalatrass." The cold weight in Shepard's words squelched the salarian as Shepard transferred her attention to the turian.

"Who deserves what is academic: it would take years to formulate a cure. Scientists have been working to that end off and on for the last…" Victus began.

"One thousand four hundred and seventy-six years," Wrex growled. " _If_ you're keeping track. And I have information that indicates a cure might not be as far away as the Dalatrass would like."

" _Really_?" Shepard frowned.

"A salarians scientist named Maelon grew a conscience." Wrex bent his attention on Shepard, silently inviting her to remember the events. "He was on my planet testing a cure on our females."

"His methods were barbaric. There were a lot of corpses involved," came the cold assessment.

"But what you _didn't_ know was that some other females _survived_ his experiments."


	200. Peer Pressure

" _Really_?" Shepard blinked, startled. "We went through the main lab, Wrex. I swear: I didn't see any of them." With the number of corpses present at that location…it didn't make sense. "If I had—" If she had, she would have radioed back, had them rescued and returned home that very day.

"And _you_ I believe," Wrex responded blandly. "Because we don't think they were _in_ the main lab."

Since the Dalatrass and Victus were looking at her, clearly unable to explain to themselves why she was on Tuchanka at all, Shepard clarified: "One of my crewman got word that one of his protégés had been kidnapped and was being held on Tuchanka. I didn't pry into the matter and we staged a rescue. Turns out the kid was volunteering and, in the way of mad scientists, things got out of hand. We stopped him."

"After you left, the Dalatrass here sent in a team to clean up the mess…and took the females prisoner." Wrex clearly enjoyed dropping these bombshells one by one.

Everyone looked back at the Dalatrass, whose mouth thinned with affront. "Where did you get this so-called information? It-it could be a fabrication!"

Shepard crossed her arms as Victus echoed her thoughts, as if he'd heard them. "That stutter says you knew," he declared flatly, but his words were overridden by Wrex's explosion.

"Don't insult me!" Wrex banged a fist on the table.

Shepard closed her eyes, praying the furniture would hold up under the abuse. This situation was rapidly becoming a mess. Abductions like this could garner a lot of krogan sympathy if it got out and was voiced in the right way.

She needed Allers. She needed Allers to be ready to spin this and get it out as quickly as possible. There were, apparently, benefits to having access to the press. Who'd have thought?

"Those are my people!" Wrex continued hotly. "They're immune to the Genophage! And you're going to give them back!" He pounded the table again to emphasize his point.

The Dalatrass' expression became truly ugly, evidencing a ferocity unexpected in a salarian.

"That stutter says you knew," Victus repeated calmly.

"H-How will curing the genophage benefit _my_ people?" she demanded, as if trying to write the matter off as far more trivial than it was.

A cold, ugly silence descended, lingering just long enough for the Dalatrass to realize she'd gone one step too far for anyone in this room to excuse.

"Are you _quite_ in earnest?" Victus asked delicately, giving her one chance to backpedal and correct the obvious blunder.

"Are you _serious_?" Shepard demanded in concert, offering no such opportunity. "The salarian strike first military doctrine is already fragged."

"How long do you think _you'll_ last against the Reapers if _we_ are in enough difficulty to _ask_ for _krogan_ assistance?" came Victus' carefully inflected question.

Shepard again decided she _liked_ this Primarch. He was a team player, a soldier. They needed more soldier-politicos in the galaxy. "And that is _exactly_ what will happen: the Salarian Union versus the Reapers."

"Because I'll be the last friendly turian you'll ever see." Victus crossed his arms over his chest, mandibles pulled close to his jaw.

"I'll be the last amiable human you ever see," Shepard tacked on.

Another silence descended. Caught between the combined force of Victus and Shepard, the Dalatrass knew, had to know, she had lost the battle. All she could do was salvage what she could.

"The females are being kept at one of our STG facilities on Sur'kesh." Then, when the silence persisted, "I am warning you, Commander…"

" _Captain_." The flat declaration came from Garrus, Vega, and Victus.

"Oh-ho, that was a mistake," Wrex added as a sly—but very audible—aside to the Shaman. "The humans get touchy about the treatment of their Battlemasters."

The room at large chose to ignore the observation, though the Dalatrass sent a nasty look in Wrex's direction.

Shepard, for her part, could pardon the rudeness—although she had been introduced as 'Captain Shepard' at the commencement of the meeting—but apparently it was too much rudeness for the rest of the military personnel to let slide. There was a benefit to the display, however: it reaffirmed for the Dalatrass that she was all by herself in her little corner.

In the back of her mind, Shepard was already coming up with an alternate plan. She could tell the Dalatrass was not simply going to hand over her captives. Not without a fight or some kind of leverage.

"…the consequences—" the Dalatrass' nasal tones brought Shepard out of her reverie to find Victus pinching the bridge of his nose, Garrus drumming his fingers on the table, Wrex and the Shaman both scowling, and Vega grimacing with distaste. The air in the room had a pronounced miasma of smell difficult to describe but thoroughly unpleasant.

"Will be _nothing_ ," Shepard snapped, letting go of her careful restraint, "if the Reapers win. This is _going_ to happen, because my Council mandate is to protect galactic stability _at all costs_. And in time of war, that mandate stretches a long, _long_ way." It was not a threat, though the Dalatrass could pretend it was. It was simply a fact. Too much was on the line for her to tiptoe around one touchy salarian authority figure.

"You can't just make an airdrop onto Sur'kesh!" the Dalatrass protested.

Shepard's frown deepened: that outburst had less impact than she expected, less posturing. Someone else was thinking in terms of backup plans as well. She made a mental note to arm for bear when the transfer took place. The Dalatrass was, she felt sure, going to try something sneaky.

"This will take time to arrange!"

"This happens _now_ , Dalatrass," Victus said with gentle firmness. "As a Council Spectre, Captain Shepard is authorized to oversee exchanges of this nature."

The Dalatrass' lips thinned again, then she nodded once, her voice full of acid and bile. "I…shall make the necessary arrangements."


	201. Stupid

"H-how will curing the Genophage benefit _my_ people?" the Dalatrass demanded archly, drawing herself up.

Adrien Victus' carapace itched in the way that usually meant he was about to do something stupid. It might be the _right_ thing, but usually classified as stupid. However much he agreed with the Dalatrass about the Genophage cure being a real concern, her attitude of self-reliance when even the _turians_ —as self-reliant a species as was possible—were willing to discuss help from the krogan was just stupid.

More stupid than anything he could say or do except shoot his way through the chain of command until he found the smart people. It was the same idea he suspected Shepard of entertaining when the Summit was just a plan without real cohesion. From the look on her face, she might still be considering the idea.

He didn't blame her in the least.

"Are you _quite_ in earnest?" he asked, still appalled—though he was glad he didn't sound that way—at the stupidity on display before him.

Shepard was a split second behind him. "Are you _serious_? The salarian strike first military doctrine is already fragged."

So she took time to study other species' military preferences? Wise, on the whole…and he wondered if, maybe, he hadn't cleared out all the lingering cobwebs about humanity. He'd made an effort to be open-minded around them in the intervening years, but apparently he was still hanging onto a few things.

Strangely enough, he suspected Shepard would understand and overlook the cobwebs as long as they didn't interfere with the mission or cause friction with her crew.

Now was the time for solidarity, more so than ever because he was currently highly aware of his 'cobwebs.' "How long do you think _you'll_ last against the Reapers if _we_ are in enough difficulty to _ask_ for _krogan_ assistance?"

"And that is _exactly_ what will happen: the Salarian Union versus the Reapers."

"Because I'll be the last friendly turian you'll ever see."

"I'll be the last amiable human you ever see."

It wasn't the worst tag team he'd ever seen.

The Dalatrass shifted beneath the glares he and Shepard levelled at her. With Shepard's bright eyes, hers could be almost turian. Almost.

"The females are being kept at one of our STG facilities on Sur'kesh." Then, when the silence persisted, "I am warning you, Commander…"

" _Captain_ ," Victus—accompanied sharply by Garrus and flatly by Shepard's aide—interjected with a bite in his tone. There was no way the Dalatrass didn't know the Captain's proper rank; there was just no excuse for that degree of rudeness, especially in a venue such as this.

The dislike of the Dalatrass percolating in the room increased exponentially.

The Dalatrass shot him, particularly, a nasty look. Why had he never appreciated what slimy things salarian politicians were? He'd always thought of salarians, in general, as fast-talking slippery folk, but he'd never have called them _slimy_.

The clan-chief laughed, low and sinister. "Oh-ho, _that_ was a mistake. The humans get touchy about the treatment of their Battlemasters."

Victus gave way to habit and inclination, pressing his thumb and middle finger against the bridge of his nose. What had happened to smart salarians? It wasn't as though Sur'kesh was burning, like Earth and Palaven and how many other worlds.

"…the consequences—"

Shepard's calm broke like a clap of thunder. When she spoke, it was in the voice of a practiced leader of men, the sort of tone used to rally troops for a last stand, the tone that electrified and dragged to the surface the strength for one last push. Even Victus felt it pull near his gizzard. "Will be _nothing_ if the Reapers win. This is _going_ to happen, because my Council mandate is to protect galactic stability _at all costs_. And in time of war, that mandate stretches a long, _long_ way."

The Dalatrass swallowed hard before speaking. Shepard's words might be a rallying cry but there was an underlying threat: _quit being part of the big problem or I'll_ _be_ _your big problem._ "You can't just make an airdrop onto Sur'kesh! This will take time to arrange!" 

Victus tried hard to squish the tug near his gizzard that tried to impel him into action in the wake of Shepard's speech. She was good, this human. "This happens _now_ , Dalatrass," he managed to keep his tone level and neutral. "As a Council Spectre, Captain Shepard is authorized to oversee exchanges of this nature."

The Dalatrass had no friends in the room, and strong dislike pouring in from almost all sides. When she spoke, her tone was suited to spraying vitriol. "I…shall make the necessary arrangements."

Victus, Vakarian, and both the krogan exited the war room at a nod from Shepard, who fell in behind them. He heard the voices but not the words of the Dalatrass' parting remark and Shepard's knife-slash answer.

"Primarch, may I speak with you a moment?" Shepard called.

"Captain."

A silent message seemed to pass between Shepard and Vakarian before Shepard led Victus back to the war room and into the relative privacy of communications. "I need Garrus with me. Of all the officers on this ship you have the most wartime experience. I'd like you to cover for me while I'm gone."

He could see how much the idea bothered her. "Your crew won't like it."

"They don't have to. I'll pass over to you publically so they know it's from me. If you need help, lean on Chief Engineer Adams."

Now he understood: if that was her only 'proper' officer, and if she needed Garrus, her right-hand man, he really did make the best choice, crewman or not.

"This is a Spectre vessel; the Normandy was originally a joint project between our governments. I have to think about what's best for my crew. Right now, that's you. I'm asking." A knot forming between her mobile eyebrows.

"Vakarian vouched for me, didn't he?" Victus asked wryly.

"There's that, too."


	202. Depressurize

The two krogan passed by, smelling strongly of what Campbell would have kindly called 'crankiness' and Westmoreland practically called 'pachyderms.' Both old men looked grumpier than usual…but not _angry_. So that was something.

After a moment, the Primarch broke off from his murmured conversation with Shepard, looking preoccupied. There was certainly something vague in the way he moved as he disappeared deeper into the war suite.

"Campbell! Westmoreland!" Shepard called, waving the two soldiers to her. There was a trace of angry flush on her face, but her tone was quite calm, devoid of the bad temper she'd flashed at the Dalatrass moments before.

"Ma'am?" Both saluted, glancing past Shepard at the meeting room where the two salarians remained, one looking black as thunder, the other a little embarrassed.

"Please escort the Dalatrass and her aide back to their shuttle. Be polite, but I want them _off_ my ship _immediately_." From the way Shepard jutted her chin after speaking, Westmoreland suspected Shepard only narrowly resisted giving the Dalatrass one of those icy-eyed glares that cut like a scalpel.

Both women grinned at her. "Yes, ma'am." With that, they trooped past Shepard to fill the door into the meeting room. Shepard might be a dignitary of sorts and as such probably shouldn't give evil eyes to people just to relieve her own feelings.

However, Campbell and Westmoreland _weren't_ dignitaries, and were free to air their distaste as long as they were careful _how_ they did it. Hence the not-very-friendly smiles stamped across their faces.

"Dalatrass," Campbell spoke up quickly, "the Captain would like us to escort you back to your shuttle."

"Now," Westmoreland tacked on with an unfriendly glower.

"The sooner, the better," the Dalatrass answered simply—snootily, snippily, but if she was in a bad mood so much the better.

"Here, here," Westmoreland muttered, just loud enough to be heard but not so loud that the Dalatrass would likely want to make a scene.

The Dalatrass' aide said nothing, but cast the two soldiers a look that was half-apologetic, half-embarrassed.

Campbell didn't blame her—or him? It was hard to tell with salarians. The Dalatrass certainly lacked good manners, as far as she could tell.

From their position guarding the entry to the war suite, both women had a good view of the proceedings, although they hadn't heard everything that passed. It was clear though, that the salarian delegates—or, at least, the Dalatrass—hadn't made themselves popular. In fact, it seemed like most of the drama originated from or was prompted by something the salarians did.

"Why do you think the asari stayed out of this?" Campbell asked, once the Dalatrass and her aide vanished into their shuttle.

"So they can complain about how things go later," Westmoreland answered cynically. "They'll let us and the turians make the hard decisions, then complain if things don't go as planned."

Campbell grimaced as the shuttle departed. "At least they can't take any of the credit if things _do_ go well."

Westmoreland snorted as if to say she'd bet they could and would.

Campbell shook her head, not feeling quite as cynical as her comrade.

"EDI, will you tell the Captain Dalatrass Linron and her aide have disembarked?" Westmoreland asked, trying to wipe the morose expression off her face.

"Of course. Done. She thanks you both," EDI declared.

The two soldiers trudged back to their post.

-J-

Shepard, meanwhile, continued fuming, her attempts to cool off and calm down proving quite ineffectual. Finally, in the privacy of the Loft, she snatched her hat off and threw it as hard as she could across the room. Shoulder aching a little from poor throwing form, she trotted over to it, picking the article up and absently brushing it off. Not that there was anything to brush off, really.

She didn't know what to think, except to hope that the Salarian Union's dalatrasses had got together somehow and simply pulled straws or drew lots to see who would represent them at this Summit. That it was just bad luck Linron was the one who got it.

It made her miss Mordin, Kirrahe, and all the other reasonable salarians she'd met over the years.

Linron's nasal voice, her patent stupidity, echoed in Shepard's mind like fingernails on a chalkboard.

As if there weren't enough problems, _now_ she felt obligated to keep an eye out for trickery, treachery, or simple interference. She'd known people like Linron over the years: they didn't lose gracefully. Especially not when they lost by a landslide.

Again, Shepard cursed the asari leadership, wondering how the meeting would have gone had, say, Aethyta been there to lend a voice.

The thought of the blunt, coarse asari pragmatist clashing with Linron—or even with Wrex and Victus just to take their measures—cracked her bad mood. Oh, yes. She would have liked to have Aethyta here for this meeting. It might have complicated things, asari liking compromise as they did, but it might have had minor benefits for everyone's state of mind.

Shepard dropped into her chair, wiping her brow on her sleeve. It was only now, as she could relax for a moment, that she realized the Alliance truly trusted her again. If they didn't, they'd have sent a proper human delegate. She was grateful the matter was being left, mostly, to soldiers.

That wasn't to say she didn't understand some of Linron's concerns…but like Victus said, 'better a grateful ally than a vengeful enemy.'

The intercom blinked. "Yeah?" Shepard asked, sighing heavily.

" _Hey Shepard?_ " Garrus asked. " _Got a sparring ring in the cargo bay, and not enough people to play—_ " Her translator coughed, indicating an idiomatic translation that didn't really work. "— _Round Pigeon. You want in? Victus's plates are going to melt if he doesn't calm down. You know how it is._ "

Shepard gave a grim laugh. "Yeah, I know. Be down in a minute."

She just needed to grab some arm-protecting bandages from Dr. Chakwas. Turian carapace was no joke.


	203. Sold Out

"A bully has few friends when he needs them most!" Linron declaimed passionately.

Shepard stopped, turned back. "And yet you're alone at the table."

Linron stalked out of the meeting room, following the two soldiers tasked to escort her back to her shuttle, her eyes narrowed, her lip curled. The choice made here, today, was so foolish—and that Spectre! So arrogant, so overbearing, so unforgivably rude…a simian with a gun and no sense of the totality of the galaxy in which she lived…

The only option was distasteful to Linron, but she could not see a better answer to the problem. The krogan _could not_ be allowed to make a resurgence. The Genophage _must not_ be abolished!

And the gall of these people! Since when did a delusional Spectre and a warmonger turian order about the dalatrass representing the Salarian Union, as if she were merely someone's lackey? Well, Esheel would have to be recalled; in permitting this indignity, Esheel had proved she wasn't capable of managing her post.

Linron entered her shuttle, settled on the padded chair in the passengers' cabin, her arms folded about her as she considered. From the instant she'd heard the krogan were invited to this ridiculous summit—curse that idiot Esheel—she'd begun making preparations while the rest of the _dalatrassi_ dithered and fretted about 'what to do.' Her personal inclusion with the Summit was luck, but inclusion hadn't mattered: she still had to report to the rest of the _dalatrassi_ on the meeting. If she hadn't been the representative, she would have heard the representative's report along with the others.

She'd honestly hoped the Primarch would exhibit more intelligence than the krogan-loving human.

It was well-known that Shepard and Urdnot Wrex went back a long way; the standoff on Virmire, undoubtedly overblown and over-narrated, still resonated amongst the salarians. Shepard was ridiculously soft-hearted towards those brutes, seeing only the way they produced false tears and raged to the open sky how they had been wronged.

And Urdnot Wrex was an expert, a krogan capable of reason (in itself amazing). A human capable of collaring a krogan without putting it on the ground first—also amazing. What a pity the human didn't understand her position.

There could be no galactic stability without the genophage.

No, something had to be done. The asari should never have stayed out of this summit. _Their_ voices, the many that spoke with the mouth of a single Matriarch, would have put a stop to this nonsense.

Linron's calm began to return as the shuttle docked with her ship. Once she was in her own chambers, she took a few deep breaths and a long drink of water. In war, sacrifice was necessary; but for the sake of the future sacrifice was also necessary. She couldn't order the STG to execute the females, more was the pity; one hint of her hand in this would cause a major diplomatic incident, would cause further sympathy for the krogan to resonate amongst those who normally would not concern themselves.

No, she needed an outside hand, and that meant employing her countermeasures. It would be a shame, good people would be lost…but it was necessary.

She sat down at her terminal, carefully activating the overlapping layers of security. If a dalatrass couldn't send secret communiques, what good was being a leader amongst her people? Not even the STG on the planet below would be able to find this single damning communication. Nothing could tie her to it.

The idea of those thugs setting foot on Sur'kesh was distasteful, but it was necessary. But it took more than a private army: it would take a weakening of security near the facility. And she still had to authorize the transfer of prisoners.

Her stomach grumbled at the thought of letting those breeders have their liberty. It was her understanding that they were in poor health—why hadn't they just died over the intervening months since they'd come to the facility? It would have made things so much easier.

" _Yes_?" the man on the other end of the communique demanded.

The linkage was poor, but purposely so. She could see without being seen. She was nothing more than a figure cloaked in static. All salarians looked alike to an outsider, particularly xenophobic outsiders. "This is about that matter I contacted you for. I'm uploading the target's location now." Her skin grew dry as she keyed in the coordinates. "Make haste: things will happen very quickly henceforth."

The helmeted soldier examined his screen. " _Got it. Buy us what time you can. We'll have a unit there in two hours._ "

"I suggest you apply yourselves with expedience in mind." She severed the connection, took a deep breath. After a moment she finished her glass of water, then poured a fresh one from the pitcher on a little table.

Two hours. She could stall the arrival of those cursed rifle-minded simians and that brute, maybe for an hour, but not for much more before they started fussing. Still, the STG would want to follow all the rules and forms…that could buy another, what, fifteen minutes?

The head researcher at the facility was known to Shepard—damn krogan apologist _and_ a hypocrite! Traitor didn't even seem too strong a word. He'd repaired the faltering Genophage and _now_ he wanted to undo his good work? It was inexplicable. Apparently Shepard corrupted everyone she came into contact with, spread crazy like germs and thought she could do so with impunity because she was _Shepard_ , an Alliance representative and a Spectre. The arrogance she represented was _staggering_.

Could discussion of the situation take up another fifteen minutes? It would also take time to transfer the females from the holding facility to Shepard's transport. That would put it at an hour and a half…maybe.

Linron steadied her nerves, forced herself to stop abusing Shepard and return to thinking like a rational sentient.

She needed to procure another thirty minutes. Thirty-five to be safe.


	204. Fisticuffs

The 'round robin' for sparring had attracted attention, though Garrus and Vega wisely kept the peanut gallery and those waiting to take their turns separate. As it was, Garrus stood just outside the mat-covered ring, officiating and declaring 'points.'

It was Victus' and Shepard's second round together, and both had reached the point when they could comfortably vent about the Summit earlier. Round one had been grim take-your-measure combat. This was friendlier…or at least, more chatty.

"She's a REMF," Shepard snarled, sweat glazing her skin. "Why they want to send someone like that to a war council—"

"Peace Summit," Victus corrected almost laughingly as he ducked a blow and nearly caught Shepard when he changed the dodge to a lunge.

Shepard looped him, seeming to slither out of reach before grabbing him by the arm. "Peace Summit my ass. What part of that was 'peaceful?'"

"Point to Shepard," Garrus interjected demurely.

Shepard let go of Victus, both stepped back from one another, taking fresh stances. She was going, Shepard thought wryly, to joke with Garrus later about reach and flexibility. Victus had the former, but several times the latter on her part proved more than a little efficacious.

"Nothing ended up broken. I worried about the table, though." Victus took a blindingly-fast, well-timed swipe at Shepard, trying to catch her when she blinked, which she blocked boldly, his carapace snagging lightly on the bandages wrapping her forearms to prevent scuff damage to her skin.

"Yeah, I worried about that table, too."

"If I _really_ hit that thing, it'd be nothing but slivers," Wrex observed dryly. Although he hadn't taken part in the round robin, he'd made Griz and Raux climb in the ring with Shepard. She suspected the two young krogan had strict, explicit orders not to damage her since this was a friendly bout. Neither seemed very comfortable facing her, and seemed hit and miss with how hard their blows impacted…if they impacted at all.

She didn't have the same inhibitions—not the least because Wrex had announced 'freelance 'em!' before settling to watch. They were big enough to take their lumps, and she suspected Wrex had insisted on this 'cross-species training exercise' with the intention that those two boys would understand that a size advantage didn't mean much if you couldn't _use_ it. Or if the other person was faster, smarter, and not inhibited by injunctions like 'don't damage her.'

"Your restraint is appreciated." Shepard ducked another spinning sweep that, had she been a bit slower, would have ended with Victus' forearm lodged against her throat.

He caught her on the return, pivoting with an agility he had not, until then, exhibited.

Shepard hit the ground with a wince, picking herself up immediately and checking that her arm wraps were still secure. It felt good to sweat, and a foreign hand-to-hand discipline kept her on her toes. Turian hand-to-hand made her feel like a brawler: turians weren't interested in getting the fight over quickly; they looked for precise jabs and strikes that caused maximum damage with minimal effort. To this effect, there was more dancing around, looking for openings rather than the human method of _creating_ them. It was a lighter, more elegant way of conducting a fistfight, but Shepard could feel the benefit of her heavier bone density when her blows connected.

If the way Victus shook out his hands every so often was indicative, he appreciated the additional hard-hitting quality heavier bones conferred when one's own bones had air pockets.

"Point to Victus. You're tied, again."

"You're right: Peace Summit, indeed," Victus grimaced.

"You think the dalatrasses got together and drew straws for who got to go?" Shepard asked. With a focusing shout she darted forward, grabbed Victus by the arm and with textbook form, threw him to the ground.

Victus hit the ground, but immediately pivoted. While his attempt to sweep Shepard's feet out from under her was less perfectly executed than her throw, he did succeed in tangling her footing, which put her off balance enough that another kick sent her dropping onto her backside.

"No points awarded."

Victus and Shepard picked themselves up, the turian shaking his limbs to loosen his joints, the human rubbing her hip and rotating her ankles in turn.

"Probably. How else would they decide who got to drive in any reasonable amount of time?" Victus grimaced, then dropped his stance, rotating his shoulder. Suddenly, he pressed his hand into the socket and gave the limb a twitch, resulting in a grotesque pop. He exhaled slowly, as with relief. "Excuse me."

"Did I get you?" Shepard frowned.

"Old injury," came the nonchalant answer. "Flares up when I work it too much. Nothing to worry about."

"Had an ankle like that. Broke it in the Blitz: it was weak and dodgy for ages after the docs told me it was healed."

Victus grinned. "During the Taetran Uprising, a Separatist tried to rip my arm out of the socket. I read about the Blitz."

Shepard twitched her shoulders, aware of the spike of interest from the onlookers. "Heard about the Uprising." She didn't mention that anything she heard was nebulous and vague until Garrus put Victus (and his 'unorthodox maneuvers') in context.

"You gonna talk or you gonna fight?" Wrex asked.

"You could always tag in," Victus declared sweetly. "A little exercise might do you good."

"That wouldn't be a really fair fight, would it?" Wrex leered. "Why would I want to do some shit like that? In my good friend's house, no less?"

Several people laughed, and even Shepard grinned. "I'm honored."

Wrex indicated it was nothing.

"Heavy is the head that wears the crown," Victus remarked, but gave Wrex a look that suggested 'the head…and everything else.'

"A saying like that says more about you stringy people than about us well-built ones," Wrex returned.

"One more point?" Victus asked, returning his attention to Shepard. "You'll need to begin preparing for the transfer shortly."

"One more point," Shepard grinned.


	205. Bear

_From: Shepard, J. A._

 _To: Alenko, K. M._

 _A lot to do today, but it's all for a good cause. Thought of you this morning while I was drinking the last of the nasty-ass navy-issue coffee. [CENSORED] swears she'll save me the first cup of the new stuff…once this crap is gone. She's determined to have it all off the ship so no one ever gets stuck drinking it again._

 _There's a reason I don't write letters. Chambers would be proud of me, though. But I thought of you this morning and I guess…I wanted you to know? I miss coffee together._

 _Shepard._

-J-

Kaidan Alenko felt squeezed. The words in the message reeked of self-consciousness, of the force Shepard applied to herself to endure the uncomfortable experience of writing a personal message to someone for personal reasons…and for a reason no better than 'thought of you this morning.'

He wasn't Thane, who probably could have taken one look at this message and recognized in an instant everything Shepard said or meant to say, or said without saying, or didn't say and wanted to.

He was just Kaidan, and not possessed of great interpretive faculties. Right now, looking at those self-conscious words—and the 'why am I doing this?' doubt that seemed to nibble at half the words—all he wanted to do was snatch Shepard, _Jalissa_ , up in a big hug and whisper 'it's okay, you don't have to try so hard.'

Shepard didn't write letters because she had no one to write them to. No one who would answer, anyway: family dead, friends at her post.

It was like watching someone punching a bag at the gym, hitting too hard because they were afraid of not hitting hard enough and somehow failing because of it. The idea left him with a starkly chilling concern: how much of Shepard's hard-hitting nature was hard hitting not because she knew exactly how hard she had to hit…but because she was afraid a problem or situation would get back up with a vengeance if she didn't hit it like she was trying to knock out a krogan?

He made his thoughts back up to 'give Jalissa a big hug.' There hadn't been enough opportunities for those. Their time had been stolen, positions in the Alliance making theirs a very dangerous liaison.

Shepard deserved better than being kept on the down-low. It occurred to him he was being a bit hypocritical here: he didn't mind being the one kept on the down-low if it kept unnecessary stress off her plate. But he didn't like the idea of treating a relationship like a dirty secret. It just didn't seem like a healthy way to do things.

Alenko flopped back on his bed, frowning at the ceiling tiles. He didn't think he could handle 'keeping things on the down-low.' He'd lost her once and had to live with the regrets. Two years gave him a substantial understanding of everything he'd regretted—usually in the context of 'regretted not doing.'

She probably didn't have a list like that, not having had time to grieve as he had, but it reassured him that in fixing their relationship he knew what he had wanted to change if he'd had another chance. And he did.

Doubt squirmed in his guts, a toxic wriggle of concern: _that's all well and good. Until it comes to the proving._

No one looked forward to proving, and shoving aside doubts and fears was easier when the stress wasn't on.

He considered it a step in the right direction that he told the nasty little voice that, unless it had something specific, it should return to whatever dark hole in his psyche it crawled out of and leave him alone.

An image of their first team visit to the Citadel inserted itself into his mind's eye, Shepard and Williams chatting as they regarded one of the breathtaking views of the nebula. He'd glanced at the nebula—it was nice—but he'd been caught by the way the light of it and of the Markets illuminated one of the rare moments of unguarded enjoyment on Shepard's face.

"And then you said something geeky and ridiculous," he reminded himself ruefully. Geeky and ridiculous things did seem to jump out of his mouth when Shepard was involved.

He found himself swearing silently at some of the more recent 'ridiculous' things and wished she was in port…this time because _he_ felt in need of a big hug.

He sat up, fretting over the idea. Hugs over the extranet didn't really seem feasible—

 _No, just…what happened to Bear? You know, my Bear…after the Normandy went down?_

Alenko blinked at the scrap of memory. He hadn't thought of that dumb carnival prize since it disappeared into the empty coffin—he hadn't been joking about Bear's fate. But he thought about it now, remembering how Shepard spent half the evening lugging the dumb thing around, and how he actually gave it to her when he dropped her off at temporary housing. That had been their first date, not that either of them would say so out loud and Williams had been there as an unknowing chaperone.

But the dumb toy—badly stuffed and electric pink—had mattered enough to her to ask. It wasn't the bear. He'd won it…and given it to her.

The idea hit him like a smack to the head. He had Bubbles for company (dubious as that was). Every time he looked at the dizzy VI he laughed because of who she wasn't, and he always felt a surge of 'I'm glad that's not Shepard' when he dismissed the VI.

He opened his omnitool and plugged in Thane's number.

" _Yes, Kaidan?_ "

"Hey, are you busy?" Alenko asked, grinning to himself.

" _No, why?_ "

"I want to buy Shepard a stuffed toy." Something she could hold when she needed _someone_ , and think of him. And he'd know that when she _did_ need someone, she at least had that small comfort.

-J-

Author's Note: Palmer's name was censored for security reasons, since she's actively serving aboard the Normandy and this is a written correspondence. She runs the galley.


	206. Anticipation

Grunt hopped out of the shuttle, sniffing at the air. The camp the forward team had used was empty—not surprising since the distress call had been automated, set to go off if not disarmed by X time.

The place smelled like dust and something disquieting, something that stirred a memory so distant in his mind that he didn't know what it was—all he knew was that there was something familiar here. Something _wrong_. Something festering out of sight.

He didn't like it, and it made him cautious.

Urz seemed to share the disquiet, the varren putting its nose down and immediately sniffing about before growling softly as it led the way into the empty camp. Empty, but fully stocked. The scouts had gone down into the caverns as a unit but had never come out. Personal effects remained where they were, rations stored neatly, everything indicating the scouts had expected to come back to the camp.

They hadn't. Obviously they hadn't. Time and wind had hidden the path to the entrance to the caverns they'd decided to investigate.

Rachni. He knew of the rachni but had never actually seen any. That old memory, something born in the bone, twinged again. Rachni. He could almost taste the conditioning of his ancestors to fight the overgrown roaches.

"Get on the radio and tell Wrex—look out!" he barked as, suddenly at the far end of the camp, a crater suddenly appeared, dragging with it one prefab and perching another on a precarious edge. Clouds of dust rose as Aralakh Company hurried over to the edge.

The thing gaped like a mouth, exhaling that bad, unease-inducing smell, leading into a cavern. Grunt shifted uneasily as he regarded that little tunnel, rounded and clearly touched up by something other than natural processes.

He snorted at the thought. "Get on the radio," he resumed, "and tell Wrex we found caverns. We're calling it rachni."

"Sir," the radioman nodded sharply.

Grunt took a knee, patting the nervous Urz reassuringly. Wrex had been explicit about this, too—if it _was_ rachni, the unit was to hold and wait. He would send Shepard, since she would have a particular interest in this, had fought the rachni before.

The thought that they would be required to dig in and hold until she got there made Grunt's plates itch. He knew she'd fought the rachni, but krogan had been the perfect warrior to face them. They didn't need one human, however formidable and worthy of resect she was, to deal with rachni.

Which told him there was more to it than 'she's fought rachni before—she'll want to do her thing.' Wrex hadn't looked particularly happy when he said it, squinting his eyes the way he did when grim remembrance took hold of him.

He didn't like where his thoughts threatened to go, and was relieved when Urz barked, then slobbered all over him.

"Ugh…that's gross, Urz," Grunt grumbled, getting to his feet and regarding the wasteland of a world. It was tucked far away, deep in what had once been rachni space, as if it hadn't wanted to be noticed. It was empty topside except for the occasional rock formation—this wasn't surprising, since rachni liked being underground.

It was dark underground. Safe. Hidden.

Grunt regarded Aralakh Company as they moved into the prefabs left by the scouts. They were a motley group of hard-bitten fighters. He could honestly say that he liked them. Some of them had even gotten past simple acceptance of him, a tank-bred thing (who could kick their asses just fine, thank you), being in charge.

He was lightyears away from being anyone's battlemaster, but he found his time with Shepard had been well spent. That might even have been one of Wrex's reasons for appointing _him_ to lead Aralakh Company—assuming he could keep the command once he'd been given it. The galaxy needed leaders like her; he had, at least, a list of examples to consider, an outsider's viewpoint.

But he'd draw the line at turians joining this party—though he wondered if Garrus was still alive.

Nah. He had to be. If Shepard was alive, Garrus definitely was. Which meant…damn. Apparently there _would_ be a turian joining this party. That meant he needed to do some prep work. Shepard's name carried some weight among the Urdnot clan who remembered her part in his Rite—they might accept her more easily than most humans. But Garrus was a turian and hadn't been present at the Rite.

As tempting as it was to let Shepard bludgeon any dissent about the company she kept might be, it was counterproductive…and would slow the investigation…and if these _were_ rachni, he didn't need troops limping about with bruises (at the minimum) if he could deliver them to the fight whole and undamaged.

Rachni were fierce opponents and didn't need any fresh advantages.

Grunt shook his head. He'd never appreciated how it must be to keep a multi-species crew together and focused on an enemy and not their own issues until confronted with impressing it on a pack of krogan who (rightly so) felt they were the meanest, toughest, more unstoppable sons of bitches in the galaxy.

No offense to the females, of course.

"Signal away," the radioman announced, tromping up to where Grunt and Urz stood. "Think it's rachni?"

"Pretty sure. Dagg!" Grunt barked.

Dagg stomped up, casting a grim look at the sinkhole.

"Wrex'll be sending us a…specialist. You make sure every bastard here—" Again, no offense intended towards the females, "—knows not to start shit with Shepard's turian or she'll slice 'em up and feed them to Urz. And _I_ won't stop her."

Dagg leered at this. He'd been present for the Rite and knew exactly what kind of person Shepard was. "She's got a pet turian? What's she do with something like that?"

"Throws him at Reapers when she's got her hands full. What do you think she does with him?"


	207. Frozen

Adrien Victus' throat constructed, his gizzard elbowing his stomach viciously as the rest of his guts twisted and writhed to the point of cramping. He took a deep breath and held it, counting slowly to five, then exhaling slowly while counting to ten. He repeated the sequence.

But the calm brought on by the breathing exercise didn't last. His hands began to shake with nerves as he regarded the black-and-white facts that only a Primarch and those he chose to trust would ever—should ever, _must ever_ —know.

There was a bomb on Tuchanka. Not a few charges around important buildings, meant to cripple infrastructure. Not dirty bombs meant to poison a place and population. Not even a couple atomics near a major population center.

No. The Turian Hierarchy had an actual planet-killer planted deep under a formation called the Kelphic Valley, a place with historical significance to the krogan _and_ a higher-than-usual population concentration…which would be higher if something important was going on, because it was a major meeting place.

Thank goodness he was alone! He didn't think he could have suppressed the thin wail of distress. True, only Garrus (and perhaps the AI) could hear it, but it was so easy to get used to human deafness…but the principle of the matter remained that he ought to have more control.

For a horrible moment, Victus drew a blank. His mind was an empty whiteness. He simply didn't know what to do as he regarded the damning words in the brief. He had to do…something. He wasn't used to being so at a loss, but all he could see was an embarrassment the magnitude of which staggered him.

He shuddered to think how Clan Chief Urdnot would respond, not because he was concerned for his safety, but because the galaxy needed a united front and the krogan were part of that. Was this enough for the Clan Chief to abandon reason, to turn his back on this alliance? He didn't know the man well enough to even hazard a guess.

And Shepard? An old cynicism flared up: tell a human a secret like this? Absolutely not. The sensible part of him forced the cynicism down. Thus far, Shepard had proved herself to be an exemplar of her species—as a Spectre should be. But she _was_ a Spectre, and human, and good friends with the Clan Chief. Victus weighed the 'mights' of what might happen if this got out and her name was attached to it, however tenuously.

Wrex would lose his temper, but would also see her involvement—especially if she kept quiet on the matter—as a personal betrayal. That would surely have a heavy cost in allies. Not only would it put her squarely between the turians and the krogan—forcing her to pick a side—but it would also give the appearance of tarnish on her name and integrity. Normally, Victus might not have worried about this: Spectres had a luster of their own, but right now one of Shepard's greatest advantages was that the only shadow over her good word was that stint with Cerberus. And sometimes, her good word was all she had. Lose that, and her efficacy weakened.

…that was what Victus told himself. They were all very good thoughts to have. But he knew, when he felt he couldn't even tell Garrus, his _ipso facto_ aide-de-camp, that there was more to it than just delicate political and interpersonal interactions.

Was it that this would put the Hierarchy in a bad light? It would, if it ever got out, but he dismissed this as the source of his reticence.

He knew he could list a lot of reasons, so he homed in on the most uncomfortable one.

This was a trick—though he had no hand in it, whatever—that could cost him the respect of many. It came up on his watch, it was his problem. Humans tended to be krogan apologists, if the topic came up. He _knew_ Shepard disapproved of the Genophage. He thought he even understood why: genocide was bloody and ugly; the Genophage was cleaner, more socially palatable. If one was going to damn a species, then it _should_ be ugly, lest it become too easy a solution. As a soldier, he understood this, just as he was sure she understood the other side of the coin: how many of your brothers and sisters would be saved with this 'cleaner, more socially palatable' method?

Victus shook himself, recognizing the evasion for what it was. It wasn't even really about Shepard losing respect for him—although he valued that respect and her good opinion. It was the simple fact that he, Adrien Victus—honored war hero, career soldier and now unwilling head diplomat—was suddenly confronted with a bombshell (such an ironic turn of phrase) he could never have imagined.

He took a deep breath, held it for five seconds, then slowly let it out. Part of him screamed to at least discuss it with Garrus, possibly consider sharing the information with Shepard. It was a Spectre's job to help diffuse (he flinched at the word) situations like this. She might even be able to soften the impact with the Clan Chief.

But she wasn't turian, and this _was_ the Hierarchy's mess to clean up. Better if it didn't get back to the Council, because he felt sure the Council didn't know. What good was being Primarch if he had to rely on outside help for everything? And it wasn't as if Shepard had a surfeit of leisure time. He _knew_ her military was picking and re-picking her brain, submitting questions that could 'benefit from her expertise.'

He frowned, talons clicking gently on the datapad. Unease shook him. A turian black op on the krogan homeworld? What if the commander got butterfingers? He could hear the complaints now: ' _they're just a bunch of krogan. Why should we care?_ '

It made him want to hit someone with the datapad.


	208. Tag Team

It was, one of the stranger experiences of his life: shopping while consulting Alenko via omnitool.

That didn't matter. What mattered was that Alenko agreed with him: Shepard was a terrible hypocrite, and the sentiment was fondly meant.

He agreed with Alenko: one couldn't fault her for it, since her hypocrisy lay in worrying about everyone's health and wellness while forgetting about her own.

On the SR-2, there had been Kelly Chambers to watch Shepard and keep an eye on her health. He'd never had issues with Chambers over that mission, since it became apparent even to untrained eyes that the chirpy redhead with the serious eyes wanted only to help. Nothing that could harm Shepard left the Normandy via Chambers' reports.

Now, though, Shepard had Garrus, and Alenko seemed to think that both Shepard and Garrus shared the bad habits concerning him, and probably ended up being mutual enablers rather than tough love overseers.

It had not taken Thane long to realize that whatever issues lay between them, whatever rocks their relationship was on, Kaidan Alenko felt both strongly and deeply for Shepard. It warmed Thane's heart and eased some of his worries for Shepard: he had been honest with Alenko when he said that it would be unthinkable to consider anything more than friendship with her. Perhaps that was why he worried so much about her.

Granted, he would have worried more if not for Garrus, but Shepard and Garrus were brothers-in-arms—so to speak—and while that was well and good…

" _Pink like ballet shoes. That one's out,_ " Alenko mused as Thane oriented his omnitool to afford him a good look.

He didn't know why ballet shoes came into it, but he trusted Alenko's judgment. He turned the thing over in his hands, frowning at it, then put it back on its shelf. "They can change the ribbon."

" _True…._ " But it was clear Alenko was not convinced.

Chuckling to himself, Thane continued on.

Shepard needed something beyond her rifle and her omnitool. Something to shore up the psychological cracks that had to be forming. Her hamster had been returned to custody, after apparently living on the lam for some months. It had learned something from its master. Not the important things, perhaps, but it was only a hamster, after all.

He would have preferred a cat—humans liked cats, and cats were better adapted to space travel than dogs—but Alenko indicated cats were a bad idea without consulting Shepard first. Apparently her first cat had decided he preferred turians while she was still grieving over a lost friend. She hadn't turned against the feline species, but she didn't really trust them, either.

Thane wondered how Shepard would feel about Alenko's loose lips. Perhaps he should take it as a compliment: trust that his lips would not, in turn, be loose.

"What about this one?" he asked.

" _It's a rabbit,_ " Alenko declared, as though perplexed by the matter.

"It's furry." The human attraction to stuffed animals puzzled him, once, before a human had spelled it out. _Psychological comfort_. And then the individual launched into a complicated discourse about 'furry-mother' and 'food-mother' and how monkeys in experiments would prefer the—

" _It's a rabbit_."

Such a marvelous support of his argument, Thane thought benignly as he moved on.

"Can I help you with anything?" a pretty human girl asked, appearing from behind a tower of…were they puppets?

"I don't know. Alenko. There's a pyjak, here." He wasn't sure if it was a suggestion, a complaint, or a dumbfounded statement. The purple pyjak had the most ridiculous expression—

 _Dusty air of Tuchanka in his lungs, rasping on skin. Vakarian's rifle barks one short warning and the tiny purple target drops. Playful, irritating natives on Eletania, basic vermin here. How perception changes by planet._

Alenko snorted, making Thane blink. " _She'll think I'm still giving her crap about Eletania. Otherwise I'd say yes._ "

"We're shopping for a friend," Thane clarified to the perplexed clerk. "If we have questions, we will be sure to ask." He frowned. This was silly: plushy turians, plushy asari, a squat krogan that looked like a pillow…they must be for tourists to send home. There was no other explanation, he thought as he examined the limp tentacles of a stuffed hanar.

" _Hey, pan back to the left_ ," Alenko broke in, sounding hopeful.

Thane did so.

" _That one. The dark one."_

Thane picked the thing up. He'd been at this long enough today to recognize 'teddy bear' and begin to tell the different styles apart. He manipulated the thing's limbs, turned its head. The joints in the creature would ensure that its limbs would not be in Shepard's way if she did anything more than leave it on her couch. Suitable, then.

 _Her eyes cloud further, light disappearing. "He was my Irikah. He woke me up." Pain in every line, dwindling hope._

 _If I can help, I must._

" _What do you think?"_ Alenko asked, a frown in his tone.

"I think…" he had intended to say 'it will be suitable' but changed his mind at the last minute, "…she will like it. She'll be glad to know someone is thinking of her." She needed to know someone was thinking of her. He saw her during her skirmishes with the Collectors; he could see that the war with their masters would take even more.

And he was not sure how much she had left to give. She had supported and lifted up her crew last time. Whether she would admit it or not, she now needed them to do the same for her.

Unfortunately, Shepard was horrible at reconciling 'need' and 'want.'

" _I think this is the one_." Alenko declared.

Good. The fragrance in this shop was beginning to irritate Thane's senses. He pulled out the credit chit Alenko had handed him when they hatched this scheme. Alenko was grounded to the hospital but he, Thane, was not—and gentle to moderate cardio was already part of Thane's daily routine.


	209. Hot Seat

"Alright, in my absence Primarch Victus is in command. Call it a goodwill gesture. Adams, keep the engines warm. Just in case."

It was a good explanation that wouldn't worry her crew: Shepard wouldn't leave someone like him in charge unless she expected trouble…but she wasn't going to let her own caution disrupt everyone else's calm.

"Yes ma'am," Adams nodded curtly. He didn't seem upset at being left in the engine room in favor of a turian not-fabulous-diplomat. Adams caught Victus eye and gave him a nod…which could have meant anything, really. At any rate, it didn't seem 'you usurped my post, you bastard' hostility.

Victus was still trying to push down the shock and sickened blankness of thought left by the last communique he'd received: the one about the planet-killer on Tuchanka. He had a job to do, in the here and now, and couldn't afford to be distracted…

But knowing there was a bomb that big on the world of a people with whom he was trying to enter an alliance…it was hard to compartmentalize. The fact that he literally could not do anything about it just now chafed at him.

"Joker? _No_ hazing the new guy."

The pilot, via the all-call, gave an exaggerated sigh. " _Lemme creak back to the galaxy map and move that thing, then. You're no fun, Captain._ "

Shepard smiled thinly. "I know. Alright. Everyone to your posts. Let's get this done quickly."

"I'll post Raux and Griz down in the cargo bay," Wrex declared. "Just in case."

In case of what remained diplomatically vague.

"Sounds good," Shepard agreed. "You can shoot from the liftgate if it becomes necessary."

Krogan being krogan, the two youngsters looked hopeful that it _would_ be necessary.

"Yes," Victus answered when both Shepard and Wrex looked to him. "That sounds good, thank you."

Wrex motioned the two krogan, both carrying shotguns, to leave. They withdrew wordlessly. Shepard and her ground team, then the chief engineer, followed.

Once the elevator was back, Victus led the way up to the CIC, and ascended to the platform overlooking the galaxy map.

" _Shuttle away,_ " the pilot announced. " _Orbit remains steady._ "

The crew buzzed softly among themselves, their readiness for trouble—readiness for, not fear of—palpable in the air. The demure murmur of voices, stations connected via radio, was different from the few voices of a turian crew offering bits and blurbs to the general assembly. The humans gave the impression of being more networked…but Victus recognized, when he tried to listen in, that a lot of the information didn't need to be announced: it would be on screens all over the place.

Was it nerves or just inclination of the species to communicate, even if it wasn't necessary?

Spirits. There was a planet-killer on Tuchanka.

He tried to comfort himself that no one outside the Hierarchy knew about it. It was safe where it was for the moment, although it would certainly have to be dealt with quickly. He wouldn't be able to sleep at night with that hulking thing brooding under the surface. Fate was a tricky entity; he wouldn't put it past her to play him a trick and let some krogan dirt-farmer (or equivalent thereto) trip over the damn thing.

The galaxy map blinked brightly at him, slowly turning as the display idled. It looked so peaceful, contrary to the reality.

Unease curled gently around his innards.

Tarquin had the makings of a good officer…but he was awfully raw. But no one else knew about the bomb, and if the Turian Hierarchy's active duty pool was good at one thing, it was being discreet.

But that was thinking in terms of ideals, and how often did a situation remain ideal? _Ideally_ , no one but a handful of highly placed members of the Hierarchy—a shrinking pool—knew about the bomb. This wasn't a secret anyone would share with outsiders. For security on this to be compromised, things would have to be very bad, indeed…

And, to make matters more uncomfortable, Victus knew that far from having no other options, Shepard chose to trust him with her ship and crew, two things about which she cared very much. It took trust to make alliances work, and he wondered—even with Garrus' endorsement—how hard Shepard found it to leave an outsider in charge in preference to some capable officer on her crew (green or otherwise).

It left him feeling like a hypocrite, accepting her trust without showing his in turn. And this wasn't exactly a minor matter.

There was still time, part of him said. And he felt confident that even if he didn't know how to break the news to the krogan, Shepard might be able to in a way that didn't launch a mass accelerator heavy cannon round into this alliance. She knew Wrex, knew how to work with him…and it wasn't as if he, Victus (or anyone else alive at this point) had planted the bomb. He'd simply inherited the mess.

But it wasn't the turian way to duck responsibility, either. And Shepard _did_ have a lot on her plate at the moment. There was no reason to think this couldn't be handled quietly, that Tarquin couldn't handle it. All he had to do was what he'd been doing: listen to his NCOs. The NCOs were good ones.

No one knew about the bomb. A platoon would be more than enough to insert quietly, disable the device past the possibility of being recommissioned, and slip back out.

A little voice in the back of his mind hissed that he was making a mistake.

A louder voice pointed out that he'd never needed to worry about coopting outsiders for black operations before.

Of course…coopting outsiders had never _been_ an option before, either. Option or not, he was reluctant to start now.

Victus closed his eyes. It was easier when someone else handled the diplomatic aspect. Now that it was just him, he wasn't sure his guts were reliable.


	210. Starch

Steve Cortez checked his instruments again, the conversation between Shepard, her team, and the krogan clan chief drifting through the partition that would normally separate the cockpit from the crew compartment.

" _Alliance vessel: you are in salarian airspace without authorization. Return to orbit and await instructions._ "

"Salarian base, this is SSV Normandy's Kodiak One, bringing Captain Shepard—"

" _Alliance vessel: you are_ not _authorized to be here._ "

Cortez took a short breath to steady his nerves, wondering how touchy salarians were about unauthorized landings. "Captain? Salarian ground control says we don't have clearance. They're not going to let us land."

"What?" Shepard's question as purely rhetorical as she stuck her head into the cockpit. "Take us down, Cortez. Tell them this is a _Spectre_ vessel—"

Cortez, smirking inwardly, opened the channel.

"I knew they'd never keep their word," Wrex growled.

"Wrex," Shepard warned, her tone taut.

The Kodiak shook, suddenly filling with warm, balmy air.

"Shit," Shepard snarled as the Kodiak lurched. "Take us down! Down!"

The krogan was crazy, Cortez decided as he obeyed Shepard. They weren't that high up, by that point, though too high to jump—which seemed to be what the krogan had done.

"Alliance vessel—"

"Take it up with my Spectre!" Cortez retorted as the Kodiak shifted as Shepard and her crew hopped the last few feet. Didn't even wait for him to put town properly.

The krogan was going to get someone killed. Cortez just _knew_ there were targeting lasers dancing over the plates of Shepard and her team members and he didn't like it. It was all he could do, though, not to add to the escalating situation, so he sat where he was, feeling as though he'd been pulled over for speeding.

"You are un—" the salarian voice outside was not hampered by the faint static of ship-to-ground communications.

"And who authorized you to hold my species hostage?" The krogan demanded loudly.

"This is Captain Shepard, Special Tactics and Reconnaissance! Get Dalatrass Linron on the line, she gave me to understand that we were cleared to be here." Shepard might have raised her voice, but only so it would carry. There was a steadiness to it that brooked little argument.

"Everyone! Hold your fire! Stand down!" a new voice broke in, edgy as if aware that he had seconds to diffuse an interspecies incident. "Captain Shepard, restrain your colleague! We only found out about the transfer a moment ago!" And, from the sound of it, the man had run all the way here.

"Let's try to keep this friendly," Shepard responded coolly.

"An admirable sentiment," the salarian answered, calmer but still wary.

"Put it down, Wrex," Shepard sighed wearily.

The krogan snorted, but apparently complied.

"You have something valuable to Wrex—"

"Something worth dying—"

"Wrex, I swear…" Shepard didn't need to finish the sentence, but Cortez thought he caught a trace of laughter in the krogan's snort. He shuddered inwardly; the back and forth between them was a testament to an old and deep-rooted understanding that kept the krogan and Shepard in balance.

"Yes, we just got word," the salarian repeated, "and we're already prepping the transfer. It's a delicate operation."

"Delicate in what way?"

"I'm sorry, Captain, but security clearances on this level aren't high enough for us to have this conversation. You'll need to speak to the project leader, but your krogan companion will have to remain here, under guard."

"Like hell," the krogan growled.

"Wrex, please step into my office. Excuse us."

The Kodiak tipped a little as the krogan and Shepard entered it. Shepard left the door open, so she spoke in a low tone. "Wrex, do you want the females or don't you?"

"Aw, that's just a bit of krogan hot air, _you_ know that."

"Yes, I know that, but _they_ don't."

"And that's a good thing," the krogan replied smugly.

"Wrex. You're screwing with my negotiations."

"And everyone here is armed, you'll be _fine_. You say so yourself."

Shepard snorted. "I do, don't I? Just stay here with the shuttle and let diplomacy play out."

"Shepard," the krogan's voice suddenly hardened, "if anything goes wrong, all bets are off."

"Do you honestly think I want anything to go wrong?" Shepard asked, her voice lower than usual, with a hint of menace. "Do you really think I'd screw my crew over?"

"Just get it done," the krogan growled, "that's all I'm saying."

There was a clunk, as if Shepard had thwacked Wrex on the shoulder. "Stay here. Try not to kill anyone. Cortez!" Shepard raised her voice.

"Ma'am?"

"Keep an eye on Wrex."

"Ha!" the krogan grunted, lumbering into the cockpit as Shepard's vanishing weight made the shuttle wobble, and dropped into the navigator's seat. He studied Cortez, squinting at a closer distance than Cortez would have liked. The pilot tried to keep his attention straight ahead while nervously watching the krogan out of the corner of his eye.

He didn't like the vibe the krogan gave off, an air of tangible menace. He didn't like the krogan trying to hold a club over Shepard's head, either. Cortez couldn't stop the sharp exhale, finding himself thoroughly disapproving the krogan.

"You got something to say?" the krogan growled.

Cortez turned his head to frown at the krogan, wondering what he ought to say. Finally, since the krogan seemed to like blunt speech as well as being blunt in his speech, Cortez answered simply, "Sit back and shut up." He braced himself, waiting for the blow to fall, counting on Shepard's rapport with the krogan to keep the couple-hundred kilos battlmaster from pounding him into jelly.

It seemed a flimsy thing to pin his hopes on, but he continued to scowl at the krogan, meeting the homicidal red gaze as impassively as he could.

Then, to his surprise, the scrutiny was gone and the krogan huffed a laugh. "Aw, she'll do fine." Then, clearly at his ease, Wrex settled his shotgun across his knees.


	211. Diplomacy

Padok Wiks had never run so fast in his life. From the moment an unauthorized landing occurred to the moment that Dalatrass' Linron's communiqué authorizing it arrived—enough time for someone to get killed, and there was still plenty more—he just _knew_ there was going to be a massacre.

He hadn't needed Dr. Solus' addition: "Hm. Early arrival problematic. Shepard prone to take it personally when guns pointed in her direction. Better hurry."

Worse than massacred STG operatives would be a massacred Spectre and a krogan Clan Chief while a turian Primarch watched from orbit in a stealth ship that would probably bomb the hell out of them.

Turians were _big_ on retaliation.

"Hold!" He shouted, wishing he had a megaphone on his person, "Hold your fire!"

There they were: the human, the krogan, an asari, another human, a turian, and a synthetic.

That was its own problem, but not one he was willing to deal with. Right now, his problem was a Spectre's ground team, all of them armed, and all of them extremely dangerous. The names of Shepard, Vakarian, and T'Soni were not exactly obscure.

"This is Captain Shepard, Special Tactics and Reconnaissance!" Shepard's voice carried like a roll of thunder, "Get Dalatrass Linron on the line. She gave me to understand that we were cleared to be here." The threat of 'quit pointing those guns at my crew and me' was an understood thing.

"Everyone! _Hold your fire! Stand down_! Captain Shepard," Wiks ground to a halt, resisting the urge to hunch forward and a just breathe. "Restrain your colleague! We only found out about the transfer a moment ago!" He discreetly made a hand signal, which was passed without Shepard's notice.

 _Cease and desist; situation normal._

Targeting lasers immediately blinked off.

"Let's try to keep this friendly," Shepard growled, lowering her rifle.

"An admirable sentiment." Think the property damage!

"Put it down, Wrex," Shepard enjoined, upon seeing that the only one with a weapon still raised (not that that was a lot of comfort, since two were biotics and one a synthetic, probably with enhanced reflexes). "You have something valuable to Wrex—"

"Something worth dying—"

"Wrex, I swear…" Shepard shot him a glare, at which the krogan gave an evil chuckle.

Wiks took the message: the only reason the krogan wasn't rampaging through the facility was because Shepard was handling the situation. Then again, it seemed that Shepard's tolerance was wearing thin. "Yes, we _just_ got word. And we're already prepping the transfer. It's a delicate operation." That was Dr. Solus' job, and thank goodness. Wiks wasn't sure how much more he could handle on his plate with this volatile krogan, a handful of VIPs, and a turian whose homeworld was burning and whose patience for people who interfered with a mission attached, however tenuously, to him was bound to be a little thin.

He wished he knew more about the Normandy's weaponry. Maybe he would be comforted that they weren't as formidable as he worried.

"Delicate in what way?" Shepard asked cautiously.

He really hated to give her the necessary answer. But consider where they were! And who all was present—though he'd be a fool to use that line of logic. Padok Wiks was a professional worrier, but he was not stupid. "I'm sorry, Captain, but security clearances on this level aren't high enough for us to have this conversation. You'll need to speak to the project leader, but your krogan companion will have to remain here, under guard."

"Like hell—" the krogan began.

Shepard reached the end of her patience. "Wrex, please step into my office. Excuse us."

Wiks nodded, relieved when the krogan obeyed Shepard's 'suggestion.'

More running feet, this time Wiks could have cheered: Major Kirrahe had arrived, looking enthusiastic. He knew Shepard and was known to her.

"Officer Vakarian, Miss T'Soni," Kirrahe began.

"Captain Kirrahe," T'Soni smiled.

Wiks wanted to smirk, but didn't: it was clear that Vakarian hadn't recognized the Major, even if T'Soni had.

"It's actually major now, but just Kirrahe between friends." Kirrahe shook hands all around.

"Kirrahe was with us on Virmire," Vakarian declared to the synthetic and the other human.

"Captain Kirrahe." Shepard had returned from her meeting with the krogan—and returned without him. "Sorry about that—I don't think I got your name."

"Wiks. Padok Wiks."

"Wrex is going to allow me to handle this transfer without any further…theatrics."

Vakarian snorted, but it was followed with a smile.

"Wrex is here too?" Kirrahe shook his head. "Your standoff with him is legend within the STG. Well…welcome to Gamma-Theta."

Shepard grinned and shook Kirrahe's hand. "Good to see you again. I take it we won't have any further problems on your end?"

Translation: now that your problem on my side has been cleared up.

"I certainly hope so, Captain. With the war on, our people are on edge," Wiks offered.

"I understand that," Shepard sighed, rubbing the back of her neck.

"I hope you also understand that this base contains…sensitive information," Wiks continued.

"I—and my people—understand. I hope you understand my wish to keep my team together."

Wiks had been afraid of that, but Kirrahe put a hand on his arm. "I'll vouch for Shepard, if she vouches for her people."

"Thanks, Kirrahe."

"We can continue this conversation once you've been keyed into the system. I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but orders really did just come through," Wiks said.

"It's wartime. Communications are usually the second or third to suffer for it."

Wiks didn't think she believed this was due to faulty communications; he suspected she saw a roadblock somewhere between her mission and this base. Still, she didn't come out and say it, so he pretended not to pick up on the undertones.

His radio buzzed. " _Wiks. Made contact?"_ Dr. Solus asked.

"Yes, Doctor. Situation normal."

" _Is_ _Shepard_ _. Normal not likely to last. Still, hope springs eternal."_

Wiks wished Dr. Solus wouldn't think out loud so much.


	212. Interim

"So, I never asked…how'd you and Wrex get to be buddies?" Vega asked once Wrex was out of play and Wiks had gone to oversee final clearances.

"Forgive my interrupting, but I do need to return to my duties, Captain. It's good to see you." The Major beckoned Shepard closer, saying something softly into her ear. Whatever he said, it seemed to cheer her up or reassure her.

She clapped the salarian on the shoulder. "Thanks, Kirrahe. I appreciate it."

"Not at all, Captain."

Then, she answered Vega's original question. "Picked him up during my hunt for Saren," Shepard answered. "Things didn't really gel until Virmire."

"What happened on Virmire?" Vega asked.

"We lost Ash. And blew a lot of stuff up." With that, and a lot of agitation, she prowled over to the nearest balustrade and looked out over Sur'Kesh. She fidgeted, then began pacing along the overlook as if she felt Wrex balefully eying her lack of progress and worried the krogan might decide to ruffle more feathers.

"Mission went sideways," Garrus clarified, a darker note suffusing his tone. "Shepard had to leave someone."

Well…damn. He'd picked a great topic, there…

"If you want to know about Wrex, though, that's a less touchy subject," Garrus continued. "Saren had this cloning facility, a 'cure' for the genophage. You can imagine what Wrex wanted. All he heard was 'cure.' Shepard needed to cripple Saren, so she wanted to blow the damn thing up. Wrex was this close to Williams putting a bullet through his head."

"Or eight. She really wasn't fond of him," Liara put in. "She warmed up to you, though."

Garrus grinned, though Vega thought the expression betrayed a little of the hurt Shepard still felt. Maybe it was a turian thing not to dwell, but to honor the dead by remembering the good times in order to let go. He wished he was that philosophical. Judging by Shepard's posture, her head bowed as if in prayer, she hadn't mastered it, either.

" _Everyone_ warms up to me eventually. Bullets and booze go a long way to firming up an alliance. Anyway, Wrex saw reason. It was pretty tense to watch, though. I kept waiting for him to lose it and try to fill Shepard full of shot."

"I remember thinking how scary he was," Liara shivered at the memory.

"Don't let him hear you say that," Garrus chuckled, "he'd have way too much fun messing with you. He's as ornery as they come."

"My turn for never asking: how _did_ you and Williams come to an understanding? I remember her being particularly leery of you," Liara asked, crossing her arms and sinking her weight into one hip.

Vega shifted from foot to foot. It was weird, suddenly feeling like an outsider.

"I needed help. Shepard was busy. We shot some guys. We got hammered. You talk a lot when you get hammered. She was an open-minded drunk," Garrus responded. "Wonder what she'd make of all this, though." He gestured to the sky to indicate the larger problems facing the galaxy.

"Like I told Shepard when she asked the same thing: she'd call it target practice," Liara answered with smug certainty.

"You guys talking bad about me?" Shepard asked, rejoining the group. She'd regained her composure, or at least managed to scrape her agitation somewhere less visible.

"We were sharing the Normandy's origin story," Garrus answered.

"Oh, yeah? Who're we on?" Shepard asked.

"Me, I suppose," Liara sighed.

Shepard's mouth twisted.

"Oh, I'll say it," Liara answered, though she didn't look at anyone. "I needed to be _rescued_ and Shepard was kind enough to oblige."

"You were a kid. You were scared. Nothing to be ashamed of," Garrus declared a little too innocently.

Again, Vega felt strangely outside the conversation.

"Thanks," Liara answered flatly, as if she read something into the turian's words that only people who'd been there could pick up on. "Your turn, James."

Vega shrugged.

"Anderson gave him to me," Shepard supplied. "Keep me from going crazy and doing something stupid."

"Shepard, you may not have noticed this…but you don't need the excuse of crazy to do stupid shit," Garrus said, speaking gently as though to someone slow or as though breaking bad news.

"And you're usually right behind me, so what does that say about you?" Shepard grinned.

"I dunno. Maybe I'm the one who needs the excuse of crazy," Garrus mused, mandibles waving gently.

Vega glanced over at EDI, the only one who had not joined in the conversation. She was watching it, certainly, probably recording it, but if he felt apart from it, it seemed to him that she felt even more so.

"EDI, how's Victus doing?" Shepard asked.

"The Primarch's presence has been accepted, though I will not say that the crew is thrilled. It is safe to say, however, that he will not have difficulties if trouble arises. Which, I might add, it always does," EDI answered. "Shall I cite your statistics versus the average unit of this size?"

"No, thanks." The answer came from Liara, Garrus, and Shepard simultaneously.

"We know they're heinously bad," Garrus snickered.

"Heinously bad is right," Shepard agreed.

"Absolutely. You got spaced, I invented a new sport: face-rocket-ball. Crazy." Garrus' mandibles waved in the turian equivalent of a smile—which Vega was beginning to recognize. Turians were the most alien of alien, all carapace and hard angles. The lack of soft feature made them hard to read.

Vega chuckled, but he was the only one who did. The smiles from Shepard, EDI, and Liara suggested that they were not quite ready to laugh about this, even if Garrus was willing to. Especially Shepard, who eyed the damage to Garrus' face as if it were a stark reminder, or a grim warning.

Face-rocket-ball? Was it a rocket that made such a mess of Vakarian's face. If that was true, then he really had to admire the guy. A rocket directly to the face? That was usually fatal.


	213. Timing

"What's that?" Shepard demanded as alarms began to blare.

Wiks consulted his omnitool, then shook his head. "Activity on the perimeter. Security will handle it—let's get your objective underway." He walked her unit to the nearest elevator. "This should take you where you need to be. A liaison will meet you."

"Thanks."

"Shepard," Garrus rumbled once the doors sealed, crossing his arms before rapping his talons against his armor. "Did I ever tell you that I _don't_ like elevators and klaxons in the same place?"

"I'm sharing that feeling," Shepard answered edgily. "But if they were Reapers we'd already know." That was as optimistic as she felt today.

The doors whooshed open to reveal another open-design level which managed to look like a bunker without being claustrophobic. Beyond the heavy plastiglass panels came trickles of warm sunlight from the outer-side walks.

"Shepard! Excellent timing. Got to have you here," a familiar voice greeted.

Shepard's mouth dropped open for a moment as none other than Mordin Solus came striding up. For a moment it seemed ridiculously coincidental that he was here working on a krogan project…

…and then it didn't seem strange at all. He'd been there, on Tuchanka, when 'rescuing' Maelon. Whatever he said to the contrary, he had always had qualms about the Genophage.

"Dr. Solus," Shepard strode forward and shook the salarian's hand.

"Eyesight still sharp," the salarian jabbered briskly. "Surprise understandable. Hadn't expected to return to work."

"Vega, Liara, EDI—this is Dr. Modin Solus. Doctor, Liara T'soni, James Vega and…EDI." Shepard smirked at introducing EDI as an entity.

"Ah. New platform. Congratulations," Mordin declared, looking EDI up and down.

"Thank you, Dr. Solus," EDI declared, her face smiling.

"Hm. Facial expression mimicry quite good. Have questions later."

"So, back with STG?" Garrus asked.

"Glad to see scars healing. Yes, special consultant. Had to be me: someone else might have gotten it wrong."

Mordin glanced back and forth to see that the rest of the lab was occupied before stepping a bit closer to Shepard and Garrus. "Helped female krogan. Fed information to Clan Urdnot. Encouraged political pressure to free females," the salarian clarified in an undertone.

"Wrex's inside source," Shepard breathed. "You know…why something that makes so much sense should be so surprising is just…" she waved vaguely to nods from Garrus and a quizzical look from EDI.

"Understandable. Galaxy funny that way." He glanced as another announcement upgrading security status sounded. "Security warnings not normal. Need to get off-world for sake of krogan."

"I've got a stealth ship and a stealth shuttle. A couple of flashbangs and we should be good," Shepard grinned.

"I'm with that," Garrus noted, lifting a hand as though voting.

"Sense of humor also intact. Hope capacity for destruction doubly so. Just in case," Mordin nodded. "Not exactly hospital," he added to Garrus with a ghost of a smile, "but maybe close enough?"

Garrus snorted and waved his thanks for the thought.

Shepard's attention was pulled away from Vega's puzzlement and Liara's polite interest in a joke neither of them understood by EDI touching her elbow.

"Shepard. I am reading the presence of Cerberus-model gunships in the area. Also, troop transports," EDI declared quietly. "Someone went to some trouble to avoid my passive scans for incoming and outgoing space traffic. I have forwarded the reads to Cortez, and am continuing to stream him my observations."

Shepard's guts tightened. Cerberus, here? How? She was not a fan of coincidence and this seemed too much like coincidence. So who'd done it? The number of people who knew about the transfer was small…

It was an unpleasant thought, but her immediate suspicion landed squarely on the Dalatrass and her inexplicable narrow-mindedness when it came to the big picture. The question was whether the woman could serve up an STG base and the personnel inside it.

But if not her…who? EDI would have caught anything leaking from the Normandy…and the Dalatrass had played for time. Enough time for Cerberus to divert troops?

The possibility made her head hurt—as if getting the krogan onboard wasn't hard enough…

"Cortez, Wrex. We've got a growing complication," Shepard began in a low tone, trying to keep her inner roil of concern and suspicion to herself.

" _I don't care about complications Shepard and I don't want to hear a word about bunkering down,"_ Wrex growled.

" _Will you get_ _off_ _my mike? You planning to ask to drive next?"_ Cortez demanded. He cleared his throat. " _Sorry, Captain._ _EDI's feed says the salarians are holding and shuttles are still in the green zone she established. Still, they're here at all. Numbers I'm seeing coming to back up the original estimates…I'd say someone wants to stop this recovery_ _bad_ _. You might want to pick up the pace, just to be safe._ "

Someone had sold them out, Shepard thought darkly. "Roger that, Cortez. I'll tap our salarian liaison into our channel. Wrex, don't get antsy. I'm not fond of bunkering down, either." She'd seen the manpower Cerberus threw around on Mars. She had no desire to end up cornered in an unfamiliar building on Sur'Kesh.

" _Are you kidding? If shit jumps off, you'll know where to find me._ "

She could hear his trademark leer. "Got it."

Mordin shook his head. "Agree with Wrex—should hurry and prepare for release of krogan. Females had weakened immune systems," Mordin began as they started walking. "Side effect of Maelon's cure. These…" Mordin waved to a glassed-in hallway or long room full of still, shrouded figures. "These didn't survive."

"You did more than most would have," Shepard said bracingly. It was such a turnaround from his steadfast assurance that the Genophage had been the 'right' thing to do…at the time.

"Arrived too late. Have one survivor. _Immune_ to Genophage. Can synthesize cure from her tissue," Mordin continued fiercely.

"And she's still here?" Shepard asked, hoping there wasn't some secondary facility that would need to be raided.

"Yes. Last hope for krogan. If she dies, Genophage cure…problematic."


	214. Out of the Frying Pan

Bakara frowned behind her veil at the assembly of new faces. Humans. Turian. Asari. She took them in carefully and deliberately. "Please be careful," Dr. Solus cautioned the human female at the fore of the group. "Krogan slow to trust."

"Understandable," the female answered. She had a low voice and bright eyes, direct but not staring. "I'm Captain Shepard, SSV Normandy," the human volunteered.

Bakara considered the woman before her and watched the human considering her back. "Are you here to kill me?" Bakara asked blandly.

" _Kill_ her?" the human male at Shepard's shoulder demanded, looking startled. Bakara couldn't smell him at this distance, in this containment cell, but she thought there might have been outrage. "What…" When the turian turned to regard him, the human shrugged his shoulders. "She must've been through hell." But he was plainly upset, the question deeply disturbing to him, and he cast Dr. Solus' back a dirty look.

He was young, this human, and in ways other than age.

"No, ma'am," the Captain answered, "We're here with Clan Chief Urdnot Wrex with the express purpose of bringing you safely back to Tuchank—hold on." The Captain raised a hand to her ear, the rest of her team giving indications that they were all on a closed radio circuit. "Shepard. There's _what_? Oh, that is _all_ kinds of bad…"

"Shit," the human male grunted, giving Bakara a worried look.

Suddenly everyone staggered as something large exploded—or, if Bakara had to guess, slammed into the facility somewhere. She remained safe and steady, but the sensation of being trapped, of being helpless and vulnerable broke out of its carefully constructed cage and threatened to overwhelm her.

"Cortez says there's incoming—" the Captain barked to the salarians.

Alarms began to blare and the chatter of the salarians—loquacious by nature—took an upswing.

"Reapers, Cerberus, or a mystery guest?" the human male demanded, swinging his shotgun off his shoulder and checking it. He had the look reminiscent of krogan: when krogan, especially the males, felt helpless about one thing, they went out and picked a fight with something else.

"If we find any of them in a chatty mood, we'll ask," the turian declared, turning to scan the suddenly scurrying salarians.

"We'll get you out of here," the Captain declared firmly, as she removed her own shotgun from her miniature armory and primed it.

"Then I hope you brought an army," Bakara answered, glad her voice came out calm and deliberate. She had not been happy with her position, but had understood the necessity. Now, she felt trapped, and never more eager to get out and do something—anything—than she did at this moment.

The Captain's grin had something of a varren in it, and there was sharpness in her eyes. Someone else who felt helpless about one thing and was glad to have an outlet for it. The Captain didn't say anything to this, but her grin said it all: she didn't _need_ an army.

Looking at the Captain's various accomplices—the still-silent asari seemed grim—Bakara wondered if the Captain's assuredness was warranted. After a moment, she decided it probably was.

The Captain's hand shot back to her ear. "Confirmed: it's Cerberus," the Captain barked to the salarians. "Wrex. Only one of the females survived. It might be safer to—" she grimaced, looking weary and a little impatient. " _Wrex_. We are on the same side. _Be cool_." She took her hand from her ear, rolling her eyes. "I forgot what a pain in the ass he is."

The turian gurgled low in his throat. "He'll be glad to hear it. Then pissed at losing the element of surprise."

"Element of surprise? We're still talking about the same guy, right?" the Captain snorted, but it was clear she felt some affection for Wrex.

"Is your friend going to be a problem?" one of the salarians asked, looking uncomfortable at having only one side of a conversation.

Bakara smirked beneath her veil. She knew Wrex of old; it was nice to see someone he couldn't push very far.

"Wrex is a walking problem. But not for us," the Captain answered. "Can't blame him for being a bit touchy: we're down here and he's out there."

"Unless he brings the shuttle in hot," the asari noted, "and pulls a Vega."

"Hey…" The human looked so put out by this that Bakara smiled.

She'd wondered about what kind of people this Captain kept around herself. Now that exchanges of bullets were impending, she approved what she saw. It was as if they'd always expected some kind of hitch so, when it actually came, no one was surprised or wrong-footed.

It was business as usual.

"Alright. We're getting this lady out of here. Right now," the Captain announced to one of the techs.

"I can't," the salarian answered. "Security protocol states that during—ugh!"

Dr. Solus prowled up behind the tech, administering what looked like a nasty neutral shock. "Objection noted. Now, please release krogan." There was no arguing with him.

The cell shuddered, then lowered, the front plate sliding down, allowing Dr. Solus to climb in. "Need to monitor pod as it clears quarantine procedures. Check point that way," he pointed.

"Hang on, let me synch you onto our frequency," the Captain waved her omnitool, Dr. Solus' flaring in answer. "All right, you're in."

"Could have hacked channel," Dr. Solus shrugged.

The Captain chuckled. "I know you're good at multitasking, Mordin, just…humor me."

"Hanar, vorcha and pyjak walk into Tuchanka bar—"

"The pyjak recognizes one of the appetizers and goes batshit on the waiter," the Captain finished.

"Heard that one. Will think of better one once bullets stop flying. Good to be working with you again, Shepard. Now, get to elevator!"

"Don't worry," the Captain said, pausing long enough to give Bakara her attention. "We'll get you out of this safely. I promise."

"Shepard big on promises. Almost feel sorry for Cerberus," Dr. Solus observed.


	215. Chinese Fire Drill

"Shit," Cortez swore, straightening up as his console began to scream. In seconds, the ship lifted from its at-rest position.

"What?" Wrex demanded.

"Cerberus just crossed into EDI's red zone. ETA…two minutes. Strap in!" Cortez commanded, reaching for his own harness.

He never got it on. "I don't think so, kid," Wrex grunted, hastily putting his shotgun down and levering himself up out of his chair.

Cortez yelped as the krogan grabbed him by the back of the shirt and his belt, hoisted him out of the pilot's chair and dropped him in the doorway that led to the cabin. "Whoa! What the hell are you doing?" Cortez demanded, despite how obvious it was what Wrex was doing.

The krogan turned, his flabby features an inch from Cortez's face, his lips split into a flat-toothed leer that mad his eyes glitter. "What's it look like? I wanna drive."

With that, the krogan dropped into the pilot's chair and began fumbling with the controls. "It's really better of I—"

"Get on the door gun if this thing has one," Wrex declared, waving him away. "I've got this!"

Cortez seriously doubted it, but the likelihood of an eight hundred pound krogan vacating his seat because a (comparatively) skinny guy like Cortez was asked was unlikely.

Cortez keyed the gun loose and watched it slid onto its track to lock on place at the port door. Hastily strapping himself in—and praying the krogan was more in control of the ship once he had it in motion than when he lifted it off the ground—he gritted his teeth.

It was one thing to be flying his Trident in a situation like this. Riding door-gunner for a krogan was a whole other beast.

" _Cortez_! _We're_ _trying to get to an alternate landing pad!"_ Shepard's voice declared, the background noise filled with small arms fire and shouts.

"Cortez is busy," Wrex answered.

" _Wrex!"_ If Shepard could have reached through the radio and strangled the krogan, she probably would have. " _You know what? Later! Get airborne and—whoa!_ "

Crotez's guts clenched.

" _Scoped and dropped! You owe me a beer, Shepard!"_ Garrus warbled.

" _Just evens the tally,"_ Shepard short back.

"You worry about your end, I'll worry about my end," Wrex declared as he peeled left. "EDI, if you've got a lock on Shepard's locator, put it on my screen."

" _Streaming real-time progress._ " 

Cortez gritted his teeth, hesitant to fire the door gun. It was not something he'd ever done before—not in earnest—and the concern of hitting someone he shouldn't nagged at him.

"What're you doing back there, taking a nap?" Wrex demanded. "Cover fire, dammit, or do I have to pilot _and_ shoot at the same time?"

"Hey, this shuttle _had_ a pilot! Things tend to work well when people stick to what they're good at!" he retorted. He squeezed the trigger and felt the rattling of the weapon's quick successive blowbacks as it unloaded ammunition. The vibration-like sensation seemed to run all the way through him, shaking his bones and reverberating in all his soft tissues. Cortez clenched his teeth; if he didn't the shaking of the gun might fracture them all.

"Keep this up and I could learn to like you!" Wrex answered jovially.

Crazy krogan. Imagine what that meant to him…

"Rock hard left!" Cortez backed. The krogan, thankfully, did just that, giving Cortez a clear line of fire on a shuttle some distance below them. Anything that didn't punch through the shuttle's roof during the few seconds Wrex held the shuttle at that crazy angle went straight down into the gorge into which the facility was built.

His eardrums rattled strangely, like an itch, as Wrex and Shepard bantered back and forth—or, rather Shepard snarled and Wrex laughed about it.

" _Just have him combat drop his ass down here_!" Garrus shouted before giving a whoop as an explosion some distance ahead sent a shuttle falling out of the sky.

With passengers still in it, judging by little specs that fell out of it.

The smell of smoke mingled with the—

"We've got company!" Cortez couldn't stop himself from saying it—he just didn't trust the krogan to remember there were sensors watching for things like 'company.' It was nothing against Wrex personally, Cortez thought as the krogan turned the shuttle so abruptly that he stumbled, harness or no harness. He was simply a trained pilot stuck as a door gunner while an untrained pilot (to his way of thinking) gallivanted around a hot zone with all the gusto of someone with a death wish.

The two shuttles went down, one of them exploding spectacular when he succeeded in hitting its engine block.

" _We're almost out!"_ Shepard shouted. " _Just another level, maybe two! Mordin, can you send him a navpoint?"_

" _Sending now."_

"Right. In the meantime, I'll keep giving them something to shoot at. Your skinny pilot's not too good with that gun."

"Frikkin' lunatic," Cortez growled under his breath. He was going to have to change all the superstitious luck-catchers and bad-luck-deflectors secreted around the cockpit. This krogan was going to void them all.

"Heavy mech!" Cortez shouted, watching the thing drop onto a terrace towards which Wrex was leading them.

"Shepard! You've got trouble! Big armor-plated trouble! I can't land with that thing in the way!"

"And I can't shoot it—they're in the way!" Cortez shouted back. He had no control over a bullet once it left the gun and any angle he could see meant firing right into Shepard's unit. There was no such thing as precision with a door gun. It was all spray-and-pray.

Cortez did not fold up the gun and put it away. Rather, he watched as Wrex cut close circles near the landing pad. He could see, if he squinted, gunfire and occasionally catch sharp sounds of the team communicating with themselves.

Suddenly, the mech exploded.

There was a moment of silence, then Shepard announced on a laugh, " _All clear._ "


	216. Transition

Mordin did _not_ like confined spaces. He especially didn't like them when people outside wanted to shoot people on the inside. Cerberus seemed to have given up the idea of capturing krogan female, if they had ever really considered it.

Quarantine procedures needed a revamp. Definitely. Too slow. While slow and steady might win a race, slow and steady not fabulous when bullets flying.

Fortunately, STG facility: only a matter of time before facility started pushing back, and Shepard apparently similar to some krogan: she would take a swing at any antagonist that stood still long enough.

Still, sickening to stand here while Shepard and her crew tried to push back the Atlas mech—although they were doing a fine job. They'd fought enough to know—or EDI had briefed them on the best strategy—easiest way to win was to crack open cockpit, pull out pilot, and sabotage machine's inner workings. Very simple, harder to do.

Of course, once pilot was out, Atlas wasn't as much of a threat.

"How well do you know this captain?" the female asked serenely.

At least she wasn't panicking. Panicking krogan also not good with confined spaces. "Fairly well. Good Spectre, good officer. Sympathetic to krogan… not inclined to put up with garbage."

"Of course not, if she's traveling with Wrex." Was that sardonic undertone?

Mordin glanced back at the krogan, who remained still in her pod, eyes closed. A faint crease in her veil suggested a smile beneath.

EDI suddenly darted forward, hopped up the Atlas' frame—all of this in the pilot's blind spot, if he didn't have a panel of external feeds to watch…and maybe _still_ in his blind spot even if he did. She deposited several tech mines along the hinges, then scrambled to the mech's other shoulder—by this time the trooper could see her, if the sudden flailing of the mech under the driver's control was any indication—then leapt free, turning a neat summersault in midair to land gracefully on the ground behind the mech before rolling for cover.

Excellent platform design. Very well-balanced.

The techmines detonated before EDI hit the ground, at which point Liara, biotics flaring, ripped the damaged door apart, then tore the driver out of the cockpit, slamming him into the ground several times. When she let him drop, the trooper didn't move.

Shepard was already at the control panel, shotgun propped against the terminal as she worked.

The containment cell rattled and shimmied.

At the far end, a shuttle touched down, disgorging two sapients—Clan Chief of Urdnot and a human who had to be Shepard's shuttle pilot. The former looked robust and amused, the latter exceedingly as though he would like to strangle the krogan…and might just try it, to prove a point, if he could figure out how.

Suddenly, the containment cell came loose, settling innocently into place as if it had never experienced a hang-up in its life.

"That was some weird-ass flying, Cortez," Shepard declared idly.

Cortez grimaced, casting Wrex—ignoring it totally—a baleful look. "Well, it would have been better, but when a four hundred kilo krogan asks to borrow your shuttle, you _comply_."

Shepard patted the pilot's shoulder. "I was going to add 'and fancy shooting.'"

"Sorry we weren't much help with that," he motioned to the smoking Atlas.

Garrus, turians having a wider range of sensitivity to frequency, heard it first. "Down!" he shouted.

Shepard grabbed Cortez, forced him to the ground, doing her best to provide what protection she could.

Liara was a split second behind, raising a barrier to protect Shepard, Cortez, and anything behind them—like the containment cell, just opening up.

The Atlas exploded spectacularly, sending smoke and shrapnel everywhere, embedding itself in walls and harmlessly dropping to the ground as it hit off Liara's barrier.

"Damn all engineers!" Wrex almost howled. "Can't they just lose and be done with it!?"

"That would be pointless, given our current situation. Better to simply shoot all _Cerberus_ engineers," EDI observed, a little too innocently.

Several snorts of laughter as the smoke began to clear.

Wrex rolled his eyes, mouthing—in his own language—EDI's correction. " _Fine_! Humans and their last-minute gestures—why can't your kind just lose and be done with it?"

"You're welcome," chimed in those humans present, which seemed to irritate Wrex even further.

Note to self: don't antagonize pilot. Apparently part of pack.

"I've got a lot of friends. Hmph." With a snort, he lumbered up to the containment pod and offered the female his free hand, softening his voice. "Let's get you out of there."

"Really smooth, Wrex," Shepard noted, _sotto voce,_ witha shake of her head.

The female, with a growl, snatched Wrex's shotgun and unloaded several shots into the nearest corpse. Then, she shoved it back into his chest with a glower. "I'm _fine_ , Wrex." But her tone said she would still like to shoot something some more.

"Oh, I _like_ her," Vega hissed to Shepard, who nodded.

"Women," Wrex muttered, looking almost sulky.

"Well, this is our ride," Shepard declared brightly, indicating the shuttle, toward which Cortez was already hurrying. "Maybe you'd like to sit up front? It's got the best view… and not of Wrex," she added in an undertone.

"Thanks, Shepard." Wrex offered her the krogan hand signal of 'you're a real pal—asshole.'

"Come on, Wrex. You had your turn of pushing my buttons. Payback's a bitch." With a click of her tongue, as if punctuating the statement, she led the way alongside the female krogan to the shuttle, saw that the passenger was comfortable situated, then climbed into the crew compartment.

Mordin noticed that Shepard's cheeriness didn't last beyond her sitting down and giving a long exhale. Then she was serious again, tired and grim. "Nice job with the Atlas, EDI."

"I begin to appreciate the agility and nimbleness of this platform," EDI answered thoughtfully. "Of course, I had to fully compensate for the top heaviness of the model."


	217. Repellant

It was the sort of situation that could make a man's blood boil. Fortunately, salarians processed these things faster than most species, so Kirrahe had left the whole 'blood boiling' phase behind some time ago. Now, there was just training and experience.

In some ways, he was reminded unpleasantly of Virmire: Virmire had struck him as being a very salarian-friendly world: warm, wet, gorgeous scenery, perfect for amphibians and possessing exquisite aesthetic value. Add to that the heavy duracrete construction, the gunfire, the screams of dying sapients—he had assumed the Cerberus operatives were sapients, but something Shepard said made him think she doubted it—it was _very_ like Virmire.

And Virmire hadn't ended well.

' _Well, if you catch one and get him to talk, let me know how you managed.'_ Her mouth had pursed into an angry pucker, eyes flashing. Her team, likewise, grew grim.

Then they'd moved on, taken advantage of the covering fire he'd laid down for them.

Good luck to Garrus getting one of those little toys (or even Shepard getting one, as suggested by her, for his birthday): STG only.

He had to admit, the Cerberus troopers reminded him a little of ants, or ancient accounts of Rachni: they worked as a unit, more like many members of a single organism than individuals. And if humans prized one thing, it was their individuality. Their whole history was the chaos of too many individuals: occasionally they formed into bands or peoples, but just as often and sometimes for scarcely any reason at all, they devolved into mobs, only to rebalance themselves later… and lose that balance again.

It was what made them such effective soldiers: you might be able to predict what one human might do, or what one group of similarly motivated humans might do… but trying to apply those expectations to the whole population? It couldn't be done, if you wanted real, successful results.

Kirrahe paused beside one of the dead troopers, Shepard's words and anger echoing in his mind. He knelt, found the catches on the man's helmet, and pulled it off.

Commander Kirrahe, STG officer, veteran of many campaigns (as far as salarians counted them), unsung hero of many equally unsung operations, yelped and staggered back as quickly as he could, nearly tripping over himself in the process.

It looked human. But it also looked like—and he had to rely on Intel for this information—a Reaper. In fact, it was partly because it was still very recognizable as _an individual_ rather than being a generic husk that made it so awful.

The pallid flesh might have been dark at one point, but looked as if he'd been kept in a dark pit for the last fifty years. Hair was patchy, as if in the process of falling out, rendered unnecessary or obsolete by whatever had been done to him. Flesh around the mouth and eyes looked bruised, and the eyes… they glowed blue. Blue with cybernetics, and blue without soul.

Suddenly, Shepard's anger made sense: if she'd had no luck reasoning with them—given the context of the situation—it meant they likely couldn't be reasoned with. Every trooper she encountered wasn't just a misguided person trying to serve their conscience. They were simply programmed modules running around, and Cerberus had hundreds of them—hundreds of people Shepard was obliged to write off as unsalvageable because they _couldn't be reasoned with_.

Something else Shepard saw on Virmire, and was seeing again here: drones, shock troops, crafted for one reason and one reason only, to wage someone else's war. But instead of krogan, this time, they were her own people. This was done by her own people.

Oh, yes. This would classify as a very bad day—the only thing that could make it worse was a nuclear explosion. Fortunately, he didn't think it would get that bad. The sounds of Shepard and her team cutting through the facility had dropped after that last large explosion.

That last large explosion was also the point at which the surviving troopers began evacuating.

" _Commander? The krogan female has been successfully transferred to Spectre custody. Captain Shepard and her crew are on a departure vector,_ " one of the facility coordinators announced, sounding relieved.

"And the Cerberus teams?" he asked, creeping back over to the corpse, which had become something of an object of curiosity to the other salarians.

" _Running like they stole something,_ " came the sardonic response.

Kirrahe looked at the corpse again, turning the man's head, trying to force himself to look at it with the disinterest of someone used to handling corpses. But the soulless eyes bothered him. Even when this thing was alive, if you could call it living, it wasn't really. He exhaled slowly.

This was an amazing piece of bioengineering.

But it was also repellant to a degree that left even him—hardened STG operative that he was—wanting to vomit.

It was why he believed that Shepard might have _worked with_ Cerberus… but that she would never have _joined_ them. STG understood alliances of necessity. They also understood that, when the alliance was over, one party would probably end up dead in some publically acceptable, plausibly deniable fashion.

No, the only people who didn't understand these things were the ones who never had to deal with the awful choice: one's self-respect versus the benefit of others.

He owed her a drink—so the saying went, as most amphibians tended to avoid copious amounts of alcohol—if she'd been able to work with Cerberus for more than a week.

He straightened up, still finding the semi-human, semi-Reaper features disquieting. "Put out an order: I want all these corpses piled up and burned."

"… _but sir…_ "

"No one wants them back," Kirrahe snapped, putting the helmet back on. "And they smell. Plague-containment measures on all Cerberus operatives. _Now_."

"… _yes, sir_ ," the coordinator answered meekly.

No one wanted them back.

And he'd be damned if his people started dabbling in this madness.


	218. Posturing

The Normandy was a strange place, unlike anywhere she ever expected to find herself. It was spacious, but the crew seemed very small. Part of her was glad Shepard had dragged Wrex off to allow her and Dr. Solus time to settle in and get the preliminaries—as he called them—over with.

Well, he'd gotten them over with and now he wanted to _talk._ No one talked like a salarian, fast and endlessly.

"Aware krogan find scars attractive. Garrus loyal, reasonably intelligent, bit aggressive—almost like krogan."

The doors slid open admitting Shepard without her armor.

"For the third time, Doctor, I'm _not_ _interested_ ," Bakara growled.

"I can tell Garrus Mordin's trying to set you two up," Shepard offered with a grin.

"Hm. Only trying to help—"

The Doctor did not get any further. The doors hissed apart admitting Wrex. Bakara's mouth twisted under her veil. Maybe she _should_ ask for the stupid suggestions back.

She knew Wrex and knew that he wouldn't have been kept at distance for long. She also knew his arrival would be accompanied by a great deal of bluster. The headache throbbing at the lowest, furthest-back point in her brain cavity did not make her desirous of seeing him and she wondered how the Captain would take it if she grabbed the nearest solid object and bounced it off Wrex's headplate.

"Are you okay?" he demanded roughly.

Shepard came to attention, weight shifting onto the balls of her feet.

"I'm _fine_ , Wrex, you can relax," Bakara answered, trying to keep her irritation out of her voice. She didn't think she managed well.

"Can't be too careful," Wrex answered, stopping on front of her. "Or put any faith in salarian doctors."

Bakara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The more things changed…

Shepard's eyes narrowed, as did her lips. She glanced at the Doctor, then back to Wrex. Then she glanced to Bakara as if looking for a cue. Everything about her seemed to scream _say the word and his ass is_ _gone_ _._ She was a protective one, this Shepard.

"This one is different," Bakara answered, indicating the Doctor.

"Is he?" Wrex asked, frowning as the Doctor continued to work. "What's that?" he asked, jerking his chin at the syringe the Doctor fiddled with.

"Simple blood test," the Doctor answered.

"What kind?" Wrex pressed.

The Doctor gave Wrex a patronizing look. "Kind that ends the Genophage. Shepard, please. Distraction counterproductive. Also affecting comfort of patient."

"I'll vouch for him, Wrex," Shepard said simply, though her posture shifted, putting Bakara in mind of someone bracing against a charge. She obviously knew Wrex and was ready to meet his posturing head-on.

Good for her.

"I mean it," the Captain added darkly.

Wrex snorted, giving Shepard a challenging grin the Doctor didn't see. "Salarians have minds like twisty little mazes, Shepard. You never know when they're leading you into a trap."

Shepard opened her mouth, but the Doctor bristled and, whipping around to face Wrex, answered back. Bakara had not failed to notice how, as time went on, the Doctor wound himself tighter and tighter over the Genophage problem. He was going to snap sooner or later.

" _Trap_?" the salarian demanded. "Eve's release _my_ doing. Would never have known about her if not for me."

"That was then," Wrex answered. "But she's out now. And if she gets hurt…I'll feel it." He planted a fist over his primary heart.

Bakara snorted audibly. Oh _would_ he?

Wrex shot her a look asking—demanding was more like—krogan solidarity in the face of all the aliens.

She snorted again and shook her head. If he wanted to bluster, that was his business. She wanted no part of it.

"Understand," the Doctor answered. "But _my_ patient. _My_ responsibility. Her welfare a priority. Will not allow her to be compromised. By _anyone_." A moment of significant glance and the Doctor went right back to his work, effectively ignoring Wrex except when he had to move past the krogan.

Wrex gave a low chuckle. "You've got a quad, Doctor."

Shepard's posture relaxed marginally, the weight settling back on her heels. She was wound tightly, too, this human leader. And why shouldn't she be? She had turians and krogan aboard her vessel. That couldn't be comfortable.

"Keep her safe." Wrex nodded once to Shepard—which could have been 'good pick on the doctor' or 'see? I didn't spatter him all over your shiny medbay'—then turned to leave. "Our females have endured enough."

The Doctor straightened from his microscope. "Don't forget. Still need your tissue sample."

Shepard snorted at this, trying not to grin as Wrex's shoulder stooped. "I'll be back," he grunted.

"Common phobia," the Doctor announced to the room once Wrex was gone. "Fear of needles."

"Or salarian doctors," Shepard answered wryly before turning her attention to Bakara. "I'm sorry for not asking earlier. How are you feeling?"

Bakara shrugged. "I've been worse, Captain."

"Well, hopefully we can make your stay a comfortable one. Mordin," Shepard produced a datapad. "Contacts in case you need anything. They know to expect to hear from you."

"Thank you. Will speed up the process if needed."

"If he gives you problems, I won't complain if you give him a sleep-shot. Knock his ass out for a few hours," Shepard suggested.

"Attractive solution. Will remember."

"I have a few things I need to do, but I'd like to check in on your later, if you don't mind," Shepard asked.

"I look forward to it, Captain."

Shepard inclined her head, patted the Doctor on the shoulder, and strode out. "I mean it about the tranquilizers, Doctor," she added from the door. "And I'll let him know, too."

It didn't do much for Bakara's headache, but she could imagine Wrex passed out and drooling on the floor because he chose to test Shepard's bluff and the Doctor's dedication to not allowing his patient to be compromised.

She'd take pictures. She'd take pictures and use them for blackmail.


	219. Solitary

Javik had decided he did not like being left aboard the ship. It was not that he was so anxious for the company of all these primitives, but he was not anxious to be left alone with his thoughts, either.

 _I'm sorry, Javik. But, and this isn't an insult, you're volatile. And Wrex is volatile. And that is way more volatile than I want to deal with on a mission when volatile is not what's needed._

How she'd come to describe him as volatile—unless she simply meant it as being an unstable element, rather than an explosive one—puzzled him.

 _When have I ever failed to follow orders—volatile or otherwise?_

Because however much he disagreed with her methods, he knew that challenging her was counterproductive. If she didn't kill him, her crew would. He understood this.

 _That's true, you haven't. But you don't trust me. Not even a little bit. And you've made it very clear your job, as you see it, is to kill things and blow shit up. This isn't a kill things and blow shit up mission._

Trust was not in his nature…and it puzzled him a little that she hadn't asked him for it at any point. Perhaps she was that sensible, at least. He had trusted, once. Then they joined the Taken. No, it was not in his nature to trust.

But it bothered him, being left on this stupid, smelly ship because he was deemed _volatile_. How was she supposed to learn that he was not, in fact, _volatile_ if she left him on the ship?

Because, a tiny voice he usually ignored pointed out, you don't show her you're not volatile on ship. And you spend a lot more time on the ship than you do in the field.

That was why he hated listening to that tiny voice: so often it pointed out correct things. Correct, uncomfortable and/or unpleasant.

It didn't help that Shepard was, unfortunately, the closest thing to a Prothean in this Cycle. She was a curiosity, at best…or so he told himself. She was certainly reluctant to talk about the Prothean-ness that marked her, though he'd tried to inquire several times.

He still hadn't figured out why the reluctance. The first time, well, yes, perhaps it hadn't been prudent to ask her in the mess hall about the Protheans in her head. Obviously, some of the crew hadn't known about that, and he hadn't gotten an answer at all because she promptly explained that she'd had contact with a few Prothean devices and that he was simply sensing the imprint left by them.

Then he'd lost all hope of an answer when Copeland, who never scrupled about asking questions, had asked her if she meant Prothean beacons, which led to a kind of story time for the crew.

Javik suspected anyone not acquainted with Shepard's history missed that while she said 'yeah, sure' she actually meant 'to start with.'

Fortunately, the crew was easy to distract, and when Shepard concluded a probably-censored-because-it-was-classified version of the events on Eden Prime (ironically, where they found him), Liara jumped in with her squeaky voice and another story. Then Garrus.

Then Wrex, who had just come in and discovered it was story time—these childish primitives! They were so easily amused!—trotted out a story about Shepard and a thresher maw. Javik might have been disinclined to believe the story…except that Wrex had no reason to lie.

He knew what thresher maws were, of course, because he'd been trying to research the kinds of things people fought in this Cycle. The chaos was insane: everyone seemed to be fighting everyone else at one point or another. Shepard's parents and Garrus' parents—for all Shepard and Garrus were so close—had been enemies.

But dinner was hours ago, and now it was quiet.

It was an uncomfortable sensation. When he was surrounded by primitives, he preferred to slink back to his quarters and…meditate. He refused to admit, even to himself, that he was hiding from their noise and confusion. When he was alone—when he wasn't fuming off-hand as a result of the previous occupant's signature on the place—he found he didn't like it much, after the initial stress and jitters that drove him back here wore off.

It was a kind of limbo, and he hated it.

But what other choice did he have? He could stay here, alone. Or he could go back among the primitives.

At least they had stopped _staring_ at him…all but Liara, but her expression was usually one of gross disappointment.

Well, how did she think _he_ felt, finding himself in this backwards, upside-down, inside-out, low-tech Cycle? 'Disappointed' didn't even begin to cover it.

But this time, annoyance and a rebalancing of his mental state did not accompany the thought. Rather, he found himself feeling strangely small in a big, incomprehensibly complicated galaxy.

With a sigh, he dragged himself out into the mess hall. If nothing else, there would be coffee, and while a stimulant was the last thing he needed, he couldn't get _anything_ on the list of things he needed that might help. So, it had to be coffee.

Being the night shift, most of the crew was asleep, but as always a few so-called 'night owls' were up. In this case, Dr. Chakwas and Engineer Adams sat at one of the tables, moving pieces around on the board. Neither spoke, but played in silence.

"You got me again," Adams announced as Javik poured some coffee. "Am I really that bad?"

Chakwas chuckled wanly. "I'm afraid so."

"Hm."

Javik moved to peer at the board, a round thing covered with little glass balls. Like everything else, it was incomprehensible, and left him feeling…

Beh. He wasn't the sort to analyze his _feelings_. That was something for these primitives.

"You want in, or are you just passing through?" Adams asked.

"I do not know your game."

"Well…yeah." Adams' eyebrows rose.

Slowly, Javik sat down.


	220. Care Package

"Captain?"

Shepard hurried over to find Cortez and a pair of conscripts sorting through the boxes of fresh supplies. "Is something wrong?"

Cortez smiled wryly at the assumption of problems. "No, ma'am. This is labeled for you, though." And, when Shepard frowned—it would not be uncommon for a package to be labeled 'care of Capt. Shepard' or, more often, 'Captain Shepard'—he fished out the box which bore the legend 'To: J. Shepard'. No rank, no posting, no 'care of'…and no information as to who the sender was.

Shepard's brow crinkled as she eyed the box askance. It was a deviation from the norm, such as there were norms in these troublous days, and therefore it made her nervous. Or maybe she hadn't 'come down' after the last mission. That could be it. Still, one learned to mistrust packages with no identifiable sender.

"I don't think it's a bomb," Cortez teased gently. "It's too light."

Shepard had to chuckle at this, but despite her unease, she accepted the package. It _was_ too light…maybe it was innocuous after all. Her own paranoia made her smile: there was a time and a place for everything. She might have gotten into a gunfight during her first trip to the Citadel, but that did not mean explosions and combat would be there waiting for her every time she set foot on the station. "Anything else?"

"No, everything seems in order so far, ma'am."

"Good. Carry on." With that, Shepard started off at a trot, struggling to find a comfortable way to carry the box without feeling like an ant with an overly large crumb. It wasn't heavy just…cumbersome.

When she set the box on her desk in her quarters, her intention was to leave it unopened and return to her mindless checking and double-checking. Downtime had never been as difficult as it was these days: she was stuck _waiting_ while things—unpleasant things—were happening elsewhere. Being out and about in the galaxy made her feel like she was doing something constructive—even if she was only in transit from Point A to Point B on diplomatic business.

However, she recognized that she was not really facilitating anything and, in all probability, would soon begin working on the nerves of those unfortunate enough to be in the line of her rounds. Grating on the nerves of her crewmen was not good policy for a leader and she needed to exhibit good leadership now more than ever.

Restless energy was a classic sign that she hadn't made the switch from a high-stress situation to a normal-stress setting. She bit her lip—that wasn't good. She'd need to find a way to decompress or she'd short out. The idea of finding a racquetball court when there was a galactic war on almost made her laugh.

Almost.

For want of anything better to so, she produced her utility tool, flicked the knife blade free, and severed the fastenings on the box. She did it very carefully, cautiously, just in case she wasn't being paranoid after all.

Nothing happened. There were no wires or catches, nothing that should cause her alarm.

She was greeted by a pair of feet. Not human feet, but fuzzy feet, furry with a felt-like pad. From the box (pulled virtually by the ankles) emerged an upside down bear. Not a small sit-on-the-desk bear, but a mid-sized curl-up-on-the-couch bear which smelled strongly of coffee.

The bear had a tag in its ear, upon which was written ' _Because you need one._ '

A cold chill ran up and down Shepard's spine, and for a moment she contemplated throwing the bear away in case it was rigged somehow. However, it was not heavy enough to account for the weight of the box. Plunging her free hand in, her fingers found what she immediately knew to be cryo-packed coffee.

Hazelnut coffee, she discovered.

That answered the riddle of the mysterious sender, and brought a rather foolish, pleased, and surprised smile to her mouth. This wasn't the first bear given by this particular individual, and this particular individual was in the unique position of knowing that she could truly appreciate something soft and…

A small voice from distant memory—it might have been hers, it might have been that of one of her siblings—used the word 'snuggle-able'.

She couldn't call it Bear. There had already been a bear called Bear—he would need his own name. Her first thought was to put him on her bed, let him repose there in comfort…but she ended up putting him in the junction of her couch—where he could not be seen by just anyone entering the room.

This was a purchase that would strike people as completely out of character for her, this shaggy, dark-furred bear with his wide lavender neck ribbon and what felt like a beanbag in him to make him sit stable when not propped up by something.

No, that was not something she would ever purchase for herself…

She picked up the bear, sat down on the couch and immediately curled up around it, finding it of appropriate size for doing just that. There was something immensely comforting about the soft solidity of the creature, the brush of fur against her cheek, the rich smell of coffee. That, she decided, must have come from whatever shop he was in—cryo-pack coffee did not bequeath its smell to its surroundings.

She might argue with most people—not the anonymous donor, but with anyone else—that she did not _need_ a bear, or anything like it. Why should she? She didn't have time to play with stuffed animals.

Besides, she was much too old.

However, the fight to disengage herself from her octopus-like grip on the creature spoke loudly. It was a fight she lost on the first, second, and third attempts. It was nice just to sit on the couch, the bear's jointed arms and legs adjusting to ensure comfort no matter how it was oriented.


	221. Weak Link

Tarquin Victus' plates were itching. On the one hand, the prospect of seeing his father was welcome: he'd been in an agony of distress until discovering his father made it out of the Reapers' clutches. The reports from Palaven were awful. He'd had friends in the rout that was Taetrus. News everywhere was bad.

And now he'd been pulled to the Citadel for a meeting with his father…but Tarquin rather suspected this was less a father-and-son meeting and more a boss-and-subordinate meeting. It would be more usual.

So there he sat in the small office belonging to the Primarch on the Citadel, waiting.

He hadn't had to wait long. Within ten minutes of arriving, Primarch Adrien Victus swung into the room, expression grim.

Tarquin jumped to his feet before his father could wave him not to get up. He sat back down uneasily as his father dropped into the chair behind his desk, then got up again.

His father was not a fidgety man, and his exposed nervous state left Tarquin feeling jittery, himself. "You wanted to see me, sir?" he offered, hoping it would help…somehow.

Tarquin loved and respected his father…but the fact remained his father was a soldier first, husband second, father third…or maybe even fourth or fifth, depending.

"Yes."

Tarquin found himself shifting uncomfortably as his father scrutinized him.

"First, I'd like to congratulate you."

"Sir?"

"On your promotion, Sr. Lieutenant Victus."

Tarquin's attempt at dignity and professionalism dissolved. "Huh?" Sr. Lieutenant? Him? Unease tickled the edges of his mind. It wasn't that he didn't want the job, every turian wanted to go as far as he could in the meritocracy, but he'd been under the very distinct impression he needed more time in the field, more life experience, before _anyone_ would even _think_ about promoting him!

He did alright as one of the platoon's junior lieutenants, but to promote him so suddenly and without warning? He didn't think the platoon would take it well…nor would another unit take it well if he was suddenly dropped in their midst, this green kid—kid first, officer second—with a famous father.

"What's wrong?"

Tarquin realized he'd let a worried whine escape, and silenced himself. "N-nothing, sir. Just…a little startled. I didn't realize I was in line for a promotion."

His father looked him over with the non-judgmental neutrality Tarquin hated so much. His mother swore it was well-meant, but Tarquin would have infinitely preferred anger _or_ pride _or_ whatever. There was too much to be read into neutrality, and Tarquin always felt as if he somehow failed to meet expectations…but not so badly that he could be corrected for it.

There was a reason that, career-wise, he and his father stayed as far apart as possible.

His father exhaled heavily, leaning on the desk. "I know it's unexpected. But it's necessary."

A chill touched Tarquin's gizzard. "Sir?"

"There's something I need done, and I need to be able to trust the man doing implicitly. It would not be overstating the matter to say that if this mission fails to succeed, the results could be catastrophic—perhaps enough to make this whole war effort a moot point."

"And you're trusting _me_?" Tarquin almost laughed, but the hysterical reaction to being told a mission of galactic importance was about to be handed to him never came: his father never joked about military matters.

His father's face softened a little, accompanied by a soft, reassuring trill. "I think you're the only one I can trust. I want you to take the Ninth Platoon to Tuchanka."

Tarquin said nothing, merely stared at his father's craggy features.

"There's a…relic…from the Krogan Rebellions. A bomb. I need you to find it, dig it up, and disable it. Permanently. It must be done quietly, without attracting attention."

Tarquin's gaze went out of focus. "How big…of a bomb?" he asked cautiously.

His father did not answer, but handed him a datapad containing a schematic of the bomb, dimensions, composition. Tarquin nearly dropped it when he got to the part about how much damage that bomb could wreak.

It wasn't that he cared so very much about the krogan. He simply felt staggered at the idea of a weapon so big and so powerful being used by anyone at all. The fact that it had remained a secret all these centuries…and now he was being trusted to make it go away?

Tarquin regarded the specs, aware of his father's intense scrutiny. Something that big, buried that deep? It wasn't a job for entrenching tools. And to get to it without alerting the krogan? All it would take was one whiff of 'turian' and those hulks would be all over the place.

"I need you to do this quietly."

Tarquin looked up. "But sir…"

His father held up a hand. "I know it's a little unorthodox. But can you imagine what might happen if word of this gets out _before_ the threat is ended?"

Tarquin didn't bother trying. It didn't bear contemplation, and if his hands shook any more than they already did—even though he gripped the edges of his chair to still them—he was going to drop the galactic ball he'd just been handed. "Yes, sir. But, with all due respect…" He waited until his father nodded. "…but wouldn't this be better handled by someone a little more…I mean, less…"

His father was going to make him finish the sentence. The hopeful glance he cast in his father's direction confirmed a lifelong habit's continuation.

"You're traveling with that Spectre, aren't you?" he almost whispered. "Wouldn't she be…better qualified?"

"Perhaps. But I don't think so."

Tarquin wanted to ask why, but knew that even if he did he wouldn't get an answer. "Yes, sir. My platoon and I will go to Tuchanka. We will find this…device…and disable it."

"Beyond any hopes of reactivating," his father reaffirmed.

His first command—something he'd dreamed of all his life—and all Tarquin could think was that he wasn't ready.


	222. Snapshot

_Sender: Shepard, J.A._

 _Subject: Thanks_

 _Just wanted to say thanks for the bear (and for the coffee). He's adorable. I called him Paddington, in case you were wondering. ~Shepard_

Alenko found himself grinning at this, and was probably grinning like an idiot. The note had a bit of a self-conscious quality, but that was to be expected. Get her ammo, get her an omnitool mod or something like that and she was fine, grateful and comfortable—such things, after all, were work related.

Get her something personal and she got uneasy, wondering what was expected of her or how to reciprocate.

Whatever her unease had been, he'd hoped that his involvement would mitigate it a little. It wasn't as though he hadn't given her a bear before—though he had to give Thane credit for inspiring the idea and, upon remembering this, immediately forwarded both Shepard's message and holo to him.

He pulled up the holo again, as big as he could make it. Whoever had captured the image had used a generous resolution.

Someone other than Shepard herself had obviously taken the photo for her. He wasn't sure who'd taken the photograph, but apparently someone whose artistic judgment Shepard was unsure of. She needn't have worried: it was not quite a candid snapshot, but it was much better. After all, she'd taken the time for him…and it had to be more than just courtesy.

'Just courtesy' was a nice thank-you note, not taking time to sit for a holo.

It had to have been taken in her quarters on the Normandy—nowhere else made sense. She sat in the elbow of an L-shaped couch, a table just visible at the bottom of the frame, her bare feet curled up under her, her arms wrapped loosely around the bear. Her skin looked paler than usual between the lighting, the dark fur, and the dark clothes she wore. She looked like she might be in the process of getting heading out for the gym but had stopped to respond to the unexpected arrival.

It occurred to Alenko that he'd never really had an image of Shepard to carry around. Not a proper holo—anything out of her service record or off the extranet didn't count. But there she was, comfortable and content with her new toy, something she could keep close.

She looked tired, he thought critically, before reminding himself that Shepard always worked hard and now, with the war on, she was probably running herself ragged in one way or another. It was one of her coping mechanisms: she drowned the things she couldn't do anything about in things she could so she didn't lose her mind. It was such a profound insight that Alenko stopped thinking about the holo altogether in order decide if he really had enough basis for that insight.

He decided he did, then completely mothballed it. There was nothing about it _he_ could do just now.

His omnitool pinged, the sound heralding a brief 'thank you' from Thane.

-J-

Thane studied the image of Shepard with careful attention. He recognized the camera angle as one of EDI's shipboard cameras in Shepard's quarters. She looked as though she did not quite trust the AI's artistic judgement, and was between sentences in a conversation when the image was captured.

She looked tired, but this was not surprising: she was clearly ready for bed. The cottony black material of her trousers and shirt clung softly to her form, and bare feet peeked out from beneath her. She wore just enough to cover up should she have to wake abruptly and jump into action, but not so much as to be more uncomfortable than she had to be.

He almost felt guilty for not deleting the image immediately upon realizing the subtexts it contained. This was clearly a picture meant for one person and one person only. She hadn't expected Alenko to share it. Shepard wouldn't let just anyone see her in her pajamas, much less in her pajamas in her own quarters. It showed an implicit inclusion of the viewer in her private life, allowed the viewer to see her a few inches shy of the most vulnerable state anyone would ever see her in: being asleep.

He doubted Alenko would pick up on any of this subtext. Only trained observation and knowing Shepard as he did allowed him to see it.

He knew that Shepard's and Alenko's relationship was in a rocky place, but this image told him everything Alenko would need to know: Shepard hadn't moved on and she hadn't let go. All Alenko had to do was put in some serious effort.

He hoped Alenko would. Not for the first time, Thane concluded that if he had been whole and well himself he might have offered more than friendship to Shepard…and made attempts to solicit the same from her. She was truly unique and worthy of being loved wholeheartedly.

It wasn't something he could give her, not when it would only be snatched away in weeks or months.

He could only hope Alenko got himself sorted out—and he meant it as 'sooner rather than later' because it was obvious to anyone trained in the art of observation that Alenko was still very much in love with Shepard. He simply had some issues to work around.

Fear of future pain and well-deserved guilt, if Thane was any judge of such things.

Regardless, it wasn't for him to offer any more advice than he had already done. There was a whole battery of mental and emotional strings being pulled by the gift but he was the only one aware of them…and a recital of them would make the whole thing sound like a cold-blooded manipulation.

He shoved the thoughts aside, took a last look at it to commit it to memory, then deleted the holo. He had it in his head; such things were safer there, and she had never intended anyone besides Alenko to see it.


	223. Reach

"You know, I don't even know how I'm doing this," Shepard declared as she moved a piece on the board. The board was for three-dimensional chess, but Javik had set it up with simple rounded stones in two colors and, after moving one, glared at her.

"Either you received the knowledge from me or from one of the Protheans in your head."

She made a move.

"On second thought…definitely from someone else. I would never make such a foolish move."

Shepard made a dissatisfied sound. It was hard to play a game when she couldn't articulate the rules or what, even, the object was. The whole exercise made her head hurt.

"Tell me of the Ruffie-dog."

Shepard opened her mouth to ask how Javik knew Ruffie—a name she hadn't spoken since…she couldn't remember when. She answered her own question: she'd had one of his nightmares. It made sense he'd have found something off-topic belonging to her. "He was my brother's. Every farm had a farm dog." Then, slowly, "Who was Victory?"

To her surprise, Javik answered the intent of the question and not the words. "He was modeled after my first teacher. I always believed that teacher to be my father." He shrugged.

It was a terrible thing for necessity to require that children not know their parents, that they be bred and raised for war and nothing else.

"Your people. They are dead also." Strangely, it sounded like a question.

Was it really such a ridiculous notion for Javik to be trying to make acquaintance in a more socially acceptable way? She was, after all, the closest thing to a Prothean left. He was a product of his time, but she remembered the sickened feeling of consigning unlucky personnel to the ruthless calculus of war, and the way fear of small spaces, of small _dark_ spaces, had chewed on him before the blessed oblivion that gave way to the light of day.

"Yes. My colony was raided. They were killed by slavers," she answered, moving her piece three units.

Javik showed is teeth, analogous to a grimace at a good move. "Be good at it or be bad, human."

"It might help if you explained the rules."

"To what purpose? You already know them." He moved, squinting his consternation at the board.

"Then don't complain about me running hot and cold," she answered.

"You are foolish to spend so much time catering to the demands of these politicians," Javik declared.

Knowing him as she did—however vaguely that might be, since it was all in her head—she recognized that he had lost the art of polite, casual conversation. If it wasn't orders, it was a fight. "Let me guess, you'd kill your way through the chain of command until someone cooperated?"

"Ah. Not so foolish, then. My apologies."

A sardonic apology, but she'd take what she could get. He was a product of his time and she knew that better than most from having…learned…him, even if only to a small degree. He was an asshole, make no mistake…but he had never learned to be anything else and he had had no time for new learning. She could deal with him, though: throw him on his back and put her boot on his throat if he got froggy. Then they could talk normally again.

She had to snort mentally: _this_ was normal?

"Your way is wasteful."

"It is _practical_."

"If you've got no hope of winning, sure. But right now I'd like as many guns pointed at the Reapers as possible. We've got more fighters now that we'll have in future; best not to waste them."

"You lose people every day. A few more do not matter."

"Maybe not. But if a leadership body cooperates and is seen to cooperate, their subordinates usually fall in line with more grace than compulsion garners," Shepard answered. "We need people to stand together, not panic and fragment. Fragment _worse,_ " she amended under Javik's stern look. "Your move."

Javik grimaced at the board. "If leaders cannot see the necessity of standing together at a time like this, they do not deserve to lead. Poor leadership kills more quickly than my solution."

"Power vacuums are ugly and the leadership here isn't being unreasonable. I'll give you the dalatrass, though. Stupid woman," Shepard sighed.

"Hmph. You could have thrown her out the airlock."

Shepard grinned at this. "That's your favorite solution, isn't it? Space it."

"I do not expect it to be yours. It is simply efficient."

Shepard shuddered inwardly at the idea of being spaced.

"The idea disturbs you."

"Do you still hate small dark spaces?" Shepard demanded cuttingly.

"I can endure."

"So can I."

"Good."

"Fine."

They each took several moves in silence.

For all his surety that he would be a better leader, she was beginning to think the attitude was only skin deep. He hadn't made any move against her, hadn't given any indication of applying his draconian leadership style in hopes that he would come out on top before her crew mutinied. Part of her wondered if it wasn't a relief to him, in some small way, to not have to be the lead hat in a galaxy he felt lost in.

He'd learned, and she knew he'd learned, not to get attached to people, to keep only the minimum amount of contact because everyone he knew would die, sooner or later. It was true here, too, but not on the same timescale.

She supposed she should consider sitting here, playing this stupid game she didn't understand and talking with him, his way of reaching out of his comfort zone in order to try to adapt.

"You have lost," Javik noted a few moves later.

"Guess so." Shepard pushed herself to her feet, wincing a bit as blood flowed back into her lower limbs. "Thanks for the game. And the…talk."

"You will only become proficient if you practice," Javik noted without looking at her, as Shepard reached the door.


	224. Backgrounds

It was fascinating to Bakara to watch the crew of the Normandy: males and females—aliens and more aliens—living in a state of general cooperation. It was one thing to hear such a thing was true in societies other than her own, but it was another to see it.

The three-option windows of the medbay were fascinating too: they could be transparent, opaque on both sides or—and this was her favorite—opaque on one side, permitting someone inside the medbay to see out, but no one outside to see in. Since the windows looked out into the mess hall, which seemed the beating heart of human social practices, she had prime seating to watch them until she got tired.

That happened far too frequently for her tastes, but she'd made do this long.

She liked watching them congregate. They ate, watched vids, played games from the apparent library of them the ship maintained. They laughed, and remained calmly reserved, but however they interacted, it was obvious they drew strength and a kind of non-physical sustenance from the companionship.

"Knock, knock." The Captain always announced herself, entering her room with eyes averted, in case she was interrupting. "Dinner bell rang half an hour ago, Mordin."

"Yes, thank you," Mordin declared off-handedly.

"Means you've got half an hour of 'one more minutes,' but I sweet-talked Palmer into putting something in the fridge for you to reheat later."

"Yes, thank you. Leftovers in fridge," Mordin nodded, then pushed back from the workspace. "…hate reheated leftovers. Unpleasant. Distracting." With that, he ambled out.

Bakara studied the Captain—Shepard, everyone called her Shepard. So far, the crew seemed quite willing to allow Bakara to take her meals in the privacy of the medbay. Usually, it was Palmer, who ran the galley, who brought them. But the first time and this time, Shepard had done it.

Today, she had two plates rather than one. "Sorry dinner's a little late," Shepard apologized, handing over the larger of the two plates.

"Not at all. Were you planning to join me?"

Bright eyes flicked over Bakara's veiled face. "Unless there's a cultural propriety reason, I was going to ask if you wouldn't mind. We haven't had much time to talk."

This was true, although Shepard put in visits morning and evening to make sure she, Bakara, was as comfortable as the situation permitted, and that Wrex didn't need some wall-to-wall counselling. They would exchange a few pleasantries, perhaps a question or two, but Shepard seemed dedicated to the idea that her presence shouldn't be intrusive.

To be honest, Bakara was glad for the fresh company. Dr. Solus was decent, but very focused. And sometimes, people-watching all day got lonely.

"In present company, I think there are no cultural reasons you should not join me, if you wish," Bakara answered, sliding off the bed and moving to the window-facing workspace with her plate.

Shepard sat down beside her, regarding the window. "People-watching?"

"It helps pass the time," Bakara answered, unhooking her veil.

"If you need something to keep you busy…"

"Thank you, Captain. I'll bear it in mind."

Shepard nodded, then began eating. "I was wondering. You mentioned that first day you were shaman to the female clan. It appropriate to ask why? Or how someone does that?"

"Do your people not have shamans?"

"…religious leaders and society elders? Yes, though they don't usually call themselves that. I was just curious. I've worked exclusively with the males. I'd never seen a female krogan until I met the emissary from Clan Nakmor."

"We are a little reclusive, and for good reason." Bakara considered the unfamiliar food. The noodles in their yellow sauce slid strangely across her palate. "I decided to join the Sisterhood when my firstborn failed to draw breath." Before Shepard could apologize—her expression twisting in the manner of someone who had just unintentionally stepped on something fragile—Bakara derailed it. "Why did you join the Alliance?"

Shepard's mouth worked for a moment before she answered. "I was very young. I was angry, and hurt. It was action as opposed to inaction, and I'd have people telling me what to do until I could handle doing it myself. Turns out, I was good at it. So I stayed."

There was old pain there, deep pain, scarred over, but still a little tender if poked unexpectedly. "We have a saying: wisdom comes from pain. The Genophage has made us very wise."

"I can imagine."

"Whom did you lose?"

Shepard chewed mechanically, her eyes going unfocused. "Everyone."

"Then you will understand the full answer to your first question: rather than surrender to despair, some of us dedicated ourselves to the ancient ways, that we might share them when our children live again. I've known females, Captain, who couldn't bear the burden of being infertile. They walked into the wastes of Tuchanka, hoping a thresher maw might end their suffering."

Shepard nodded, her scent shifting slightly, as if in commiseration.

"What started your walk in the wastes?" She'd asked the question many times before, but always of her own people, usually before she tried to rally their hope. Shepard was not that far gone, but she had the sense that maybe a gentle boost might not go amiss.

"Interesting choice of words," Shepard answered, the old pain seeming to button itself up, now that it knew it was to be prodded. "I told you: I lost everyone. My colony was attacked. Given the choice of sit still or keep walking, I figured it was better to walk—so to speak."

"I see. Thank you for sharing."

Shepard twitched her shoulders. "Fair's fair."

"Do you enjoy space travel, or is it simply something you do?"

Shepard looked away from her food with the subject change, then shrugged again. "A little of both? It's just something I do until I get to where I'm going, _then_ I enjoy space travel. What about you?"

Bakara prodded her yellow-noodles-and-sauce thoughtfully. "Something I do. Definitely."


	225. Guardians

Matriarch Aethyta was not really surprised when Captain J. A. Shepard—Alliance officer recently returned to good standing—sauntered up to her, drift tinged green with apprehension, like an animal with ears pricked as it assessed a threat.

Well, there went the idea that one asari looked like another to most other species: recognition and grim suspicion were stamped on the woman's features.

"Captain Shepard," she grinned. "Hear you're trying to pull the galaxy together, get our collective asses out of this sling we're in. Here. Drinks on the house." She poured the same drink she had the last time Shepard got a free drink, back on Illium.

Shepard glanced at it, her expression growing grimly amused…a thin veneer of amusement over being very _un_ amused. Protective. "It's weird. A Matriarch tending a bar."

"Sometimes I fill the peanut bowl."

The smile suddenly had teeth in it, an expression bordering on fierce. "Yeah, I remember—avoid the blue ones. And here you are, again, within strike distance of my ironically blue friend over there," Shepard canted her head discreetly toward the table Liara had staked out.

Straight(ish) talk. Was that how it was going to be, then? A little humor and a lot of threat? Aethyta found herself liking this spunky little kitten. Well, she knew how to get kittens to retract their claws, and didn't need a spray bottle to do it. "Tell me, Captain," Aethyta grinned, leaning on the bar. "How deep does that black-and-white look go?"

Shepard's aura fluxed angry orange, nostrils flaring as she, too, leaned on the bar. "I'm _done_ with those assholes," she grated out.

"I know. Otherwise, you wouldn't get within a lightyear of Liara." It was Aethyta's turn to offer a menacing grin.

"I'm still waiting to hear why I shouldn't do something constructive about the hitwoman the Matriarchs set on _my_ crewman." The orange vanished, the green condensing and growing thick, sludgy.

It was a threat, but not an overt one. Oh, Shepard might _try_ , but she was a child, not even a century old, and that was such a tiny sliver of time to learn how to fight the battles she chose…or how to really intimidate someone. So rather than offensive, it was actually a little cute. "Ooh. Aren't you a feisty one?"

Shepard simply glowered. It would have been very effective against a shorter-lived species. Unfortunately, she was dealing with someone who was both ancient, by human standards, and who still possessed _it_ —whatever she needed 'it' to be.

The protectiveness towards Liara excused any rudeness, dismissed any retaliatory attitude Aethyta might have leveled at her. In fact, Aethyta found herself greatly reassured. She was too old, too well-practiced in observation, to panic as another operative might have done the first day Shepard showed up on Illium. But she'd worried, when she found 'Cerberus' and 'Liara' in such close proximity.

Vasir was lucky. Aethyta would have warped her pretty blue ass into an indifferent blue mass without a lot of concern or difficulty. But Shepard had been there, and handled it. No need to break cover—probably for the best. Explanations would have been awkward.

"You knew Liara's mom? Matriarch Benezia. Went crazy, joined a rogue Spectre?"

"I might have heard something about that. But Liara isn't her mother." There was an edge in Shepard's tone, as if she sensed on some level _why_ Aethyta chose to bring up Liara's family.

"Let's hope not." Oh, yes, let them hope not. "Anyway. She never met her father. And that's me. Aren't you going to finish your drink?" Aethyta indicated the slushy mix melting in its cup.

Shepard looked entirely nonplussed, not giving the drink a second glance. "Do the Matriarchs know that?"

Aethyta shrugged. "All of them? Probably not. Some of them? Probably, yeah." It didn't concern her. She was 'the estranged father' after all. How close to the kid could she be? It was why no one—or not enough people—worried about conflicts of interest.

Shepard's drift started to even out. "So…you're here to make sure no one gets trigger happy."

"Hmm." An astute observation, that. Maybe she needed to give Shepard a little more credit.

Shepard slowly sipped her drink. "Guess I'd be more suspicious if you weren't standing way back here."

Meaning, Aethyta supposed, it would be more suspicious to this suspicious kitten if she was trying to build bridges when they'd been neglected for over a century. Well, that was a good attitude to have.

"So." Shepard's tone was bright, but bright by some effort, as she changed the subject. "They still laughing about your idea of 'more huntresses, fewer strippers?'"

Aethyta snorted. "Not even a little. I heard we weren't at your little party."

"Yeah. I'd like to say that's a real shame, but…" Shepard shrugged, then finished her drink in one long draught.

"But if they thought 'more huntresses, fewer strippers' was a radical idea, they wouldn't have enjoyed your little get-together," Aethyta agreed, hoping for, but not really expecting, some insight into this mysterious Summit. It was kind of hard for that sort of thing to accidentally slip into a conversation. Still, one never knew.

Shepard shrugged again, as if to say she couldn't comment, but couldn't deny the validity of Aethyta's assessment. When in doubt, say nothing at all.

Damn. Whatever that Summit had cooking must be pretty extreme, which made her more anxious to know what the attendees had in mind…and were probably implementing.

She wished that at least one of the Matriarchs would have gone to the Summit—with or without the agreement of the others—at least the asari would know what was happening. Right now, there was nothing. Apparently, whoever handled the Normandy's cybersecurity was grade-A, even by asari standards.

Not that she _knew_ this, per se, it was simply the impression she'd garnered.

"Well, if you've got a gun, keep it handy. This place won't be safe forever."

Fortunately, she already kept a shotgun under the bar.


	226. Back in the Saddle

They were no closer to finding out where all the Cerberus troopers were coming from. So far, the best suggestion from 'where are these goons coming from?' was Van's: 'they're cropping up like mushrooms.'

The least helpful was also Van's: 'he's pulling them out of his ass, Sheff.'

Sheffler rubbed the top of his head. The bristles of hair needed to be shaved down before the scarring on his scalp _really_ start to show.

It was obvious the goons weren't coming out of Omega: there was a watch on that shithole, and while it was definitely under Cerberus control, it wasn't churning out drones. Not enough space traffic. But that made sense: Omega was a giant mining colony, a little more stable than the historical boomtowns…though it might suffer a similar fate, once the asteroid was mined out.

But apart from Omega, Cerberus was out of sight. Out of sight, and multiplying like flies on shit.

The doors to Admiral Hackett's ready-room hissed open, revealing the man himself. Although showing the ravages of age and stress, he still possessed that indefinable, almost palpable energy that characterized the man in Sheffler's mind. "Come in, John."

Sheffler obeyed. Even now that he was grown and seasoned, Hackett still seemed as larger-than-life as he had when Sheffler was a boy. Hackett's influence played a real role in inspiring Sheffler to join the Alliance, as opposed to joining simply because he figured it was the thing to do.

"You look tired," Hackett observed.

"Look who's talking, sir," Sheffler answered reflexively.

"Any word on the Cerberus bio-factory?"

Bio-factory. That was what Hackett called the facility churning out those troopers. Sheffler simply called it 'the vats,' but he wasn't sure Hackett had read enough of that particular franchise to get the joke. "No, sir. Just pretty sure it's not Omega."

Hackett nodded, looking grim. Grimmer than usual.

Well, he was entitled to: he was, essentially, the last high-ranking military officer left. He might not have as much opposition when he wanted to appoint new generals and admirals, but apparently the opposition came mainly from Councilor Udina who, in the absence of Parliament, seemed to be the guy people looked to for making decisions.

Personally, Sheffler felt they should just get a new Parliament or maybe even set up a temporary military leadership cadre. People who knew something about getting the job done. They could go back to politicians later.

"I'm changing your assignment, somewhat." Hackett finally announced.

"Sir?" Oh, he did not like the sound of that…

"I'm short on leadership," Hackett answered curtly. "I know you won't like it, but I'm assigning you a company. I sense the need for rapid response teams, and an umbrella to put them under. Since you're already involved in the Cerberus hunt, they come to you."

Sheffler said nothing as Hackett made a show of idly rummaging around on his desk, giving him an opportunity to grapple with the new idea. He hadn't been in a truly leadership position since Akuze. Oh, he'd had his own team, but the team was small, and he was still accountable to the officers running the ship moving him and his team around. Unease filled him like cold water. "…sir. I'm sorry, but I don't…I don't think that's a good idea."

Akuze proved he just didn't have what it took. They got into deep shit, and he hadn't saved any of them. But _he'd_ survived. He didn't want that kind of bad luck affecting anyone else.

"I disagree. And I wasn't asking," Hackett answered bluntly. "You're ready for this, Sheffler. And even if you're not, you have to be."

Well, there was no arguing with that. If there had been even a chance of arguing, Hackett would have used his given name, not his surname. There was only one thing to do: accept the assignment and change the subject. "How are Mom and Dad?" Sheffler mumbled.

"Alive and kicking," Hackett answered without looking at him. "How's Katarina?" It was a question Hackett could have answered for himself, just as Sheffler could have answered the question about his own parents.

"She's fine." Sheffler could only marvel at the bullet he and his wife had dodged: if they were on assignment they would have been separated, with no way of finding out whether the other was alive. But they'd been on leave together when the Reapers hit, so at least he'd known where she was going. She was training new recruits, now; not Ns and prospective Ns, but general recruits, here, near Hackett.

With different jobs, they were still separated, but as with his parents, personal communiques did get through from time to time. And he planned to see her in person before shipping out. If the soldiers Hackett was giving him were green…he might have a few days of leave.

"You _can_ do this, John," Hackett observed.

"Like you said: I have to be able to," Sheffler answered, unable to keep the bleak note out of his voice.

Hackett ignored it. "You should go see your troops. They'll be ready in a couple of days. Then, you can do what you like with them."

"Yes, sir." Sheffler saluted.

"Dismissed."

Sheffler withdrew into the hallway, where his second, Adriaan van Akan, waited.

"Uh-oh."

Sheffler shook his head. This was no time for wry commentary. "They're giving us a company."

"About damn time." Van's clap to the should contained comfort and reassurance.

"They're green."

"Good. They'll learn your bad habits and you won't have to correct for habits they learned elsewhere." Apparently, Van wasn't going to give any credence to 'bad luck' concerns either.

Sheffler sighed. Usually, Van wasn't this much of an optimist. "At least they'll know which end of the rifle to point at the enemy." That was about as optimistic as he felt, no offense to the rookies.

"That's better. You were always better at optimism than me."

Sheffler had _lost_ the habit of optimism…

…though it _did_ seem to be creeping back.


	227. Invitation

Alenko had had many plans go wrong over the years. Big ones, small ones, important ones and unimportant ones. Sometimes they went wrong in small ways, sometimes they went wrong on a catastrophic level. This one, however, went over perfectly. He'd arrived at the Normandy's docking bay and sent Shepard an email: could she come see him? It wasn't an emergency, but it was kind of important…did she have a minute?

She'd pinged back moments later that she was on her way—she'd been meaning to drop by today, anyway.

The look on Shepard's face when she found him waiting for her, well away from the hospital, was worth taking a holo of. If Alenko could have found a way to do it, he would have.

"Did they let you out or did you break out?" Shepard asked, more than a little startled, looking him up and down.

"I was released yesterday with a clean bill of health," he answered pertly. "And this is for you. She's been such a comfort."

She accepted the OSD with Bubbles on it, then slipped it into a pocket. "I'll bet. It's good to see you out of the hospital."

"It's good to _be_ out. In fact, now that I'm not obliged to shovel down hospital food…I'm not going to." Ouch. That was lame. He'd _meant_ to invite her to dinner. Maybe greasy pizza with too many pepperonis on it; maybe Relay Rob's, because he knew she loved the ribs there (did she know she was a plate?). He didn't think he could convince her to go somewhere really nice on a first…well, this time. The invitation, however, got stuck in his throat.

Suddenly, he wished for the hospital bed back. There had, after all, been a reason he pretended to be confined to it longer than he really had been.

"I don't blame you. Hospital food sucks."

There were just too many people. Suddenly, he was conscious of too many people. "Um, can we… talk?"

"Yeah, sure." Shepard raised a hand to her ear, signaling she was on her radio. "Hey EDI, I'm going out this evening, but I'm on call. Thanks, EDI. You too." Shepard lowered her hand. "Okay. I'm free unless something comes up."

"I took that, uh, 'promotion.' The one I talked to you about?" It wasn't something he could really discuss in public, but if the evening went well they might come back to it later.

Shepard nodded. "Good. I think you'll be good at it."

He knew she meant it, too. And it wasn't the frosty approval of someone left out of the loop that she'd exhibited on Earth when surprised with his promotion to major.

"…well, they, uh, had the 'say I do' thing this morning. You know, before they plaster stuff all over the extranet…so I'm in company housing now." He was rambling. He stopped walking, made himself really look at her.

Well, if he was rambling, she didn't seem to mind.

"Um…wow. This is a little weirder than I had planned."

" _Please_ don't say I look good as a placeholder," Shepard grinned. "Don't say that, and we're fine. It's…it is kinda weird talking without the hospital bed in the room."

"Yeah…about that…Garrus didn't tell you I wasn't _quite_ that invalid?" That was a surprise.

"Garrus didn't tell me a damn thing, and I'll get that buzzard, don't you worry." She patted his shoulder, but sounded more bemused than upset.

Hesitantly, Alenko reached up and traced the knife scar skirting her eye. She didn't flinch or lean away, which encouraged him. "Maybe talk in the cab?"

"Sure."

Once there didn't seem to be a bazillion people hanging around with nothing better to do than watch him make a fool of himself, Alenko felt his nerves relaxing. "I had a lot of time to think, you know, over the past couple years. And…and I got to thinking about the things I regretted."

He glanced over at Shepard, whose expression was warily neutral. Too neutral. She thought he was trying to let her down easy. Damn. That was what he'd wanted to avoid.

"One of the things I regretted? Not ever being able to binge watch some stupid TV show over takeout. So-o-o…do you want to help me throw myself a housewarming party? And binge-watch some stupid TV show over takeout?"

There. It was out, he felt like _such_ a _nerd_ , but it was _out_ and there was no way it could go wrong...he hoped.

A slight smile tilted the corner of her mouth. "TV with a friend? I could handle that."

Alenko slowly released the breath he'd been holding. Yeah, TV with a friend; not really a date. No pressure. Nothing to put her back up against the wall. So much for no way it could go wrong. "So…anything you wanted to see?"

Shepard chewed the inside of her lip, crossing her arms and settling more comfortably in her seat. "Well, I could say _Blasto_ , but I've heard it's really gone downhill since the first one."

"Blasto is a movie to be talked over while it's running."

"You're one of those, too, huh?" This time, the smile was real, unguarded and playful.

"'Too, huh?'" he teased.

"Did you see _Talons and Tomahawks_ , the retool?"

He knew what it was, vaguely. "…I don't think I saw the original."

"It's about the only docudrama-type thing I'll sit still for."

"Well, there we go. And if you leave the subtitles on, I'll be happy to listen to any fun facts that happen to cross your mind…unless you haven't seen it."

"No, I saw all while I was still in lockdown. So, what do you like to eat when you binge watch TV?"

He was grateful for the way she so firmly shut the door on mention of her incarceration. He felt like he ought to apologize for not having gone to see her…but trying to explain how many times he'd tried and walked away seemed unwise. "Pizza, ribs, and…ice cream."


	228. Bonding

It was clear Alenko really had just moved into Spectre housing: the apartment had that unlived-in feel to it, even though it was fully furnished. Nevertheless, the couch was at least as comfortable as the one in the Loft, and the vidscreen was generous.

Her memories of her own quarters as a Spectre were so hazy, she didn't even remember if there had been a vidscreen.

There was a perfunctory kind of welcome basket on the coffee table, and another, smaller but more personal one. "On behalf of Councilor Donnel Udina," Shepard grimaced as she read the card on the perfunctory basket.

The other was from Burns, and the note was hand-signed.

Alenko winced before stuffing the third course of the evening—ice cream—into the freezer. "Yeah…he's been, well. I think he likes having another human on staff, you know?"

"He's been oddly supportive," Shepard allowed, slipping her boots off and setting them out of the walkway. Oddly supportive in that he didn't seem to be in her way as much.

"That's a good way to phrase it. And you know how it is," Alenko held out a cold bottle of Astro-Fizz to her. "Imminent and painful death has a way of bringing people together."

"I could make a positive personal observation about that, but I won't." Arguably, imminent and painful death had brought them together...originally.

"Your generosity is boundless. What kind of pizza do you like?"

Shepard opened her omnitool's interface and began scanning for local pizzerias. "I'm not fussy—just no little fishies, and no pineapple."

"Story there?" Alenko asked, looking up from his omnitool display.

"Not really."

"Here's the Pizza Bar. Ever been?" He shifted so she could peer at his display for herself.

"No, but I've heard of it. Didn't realize they were open on the Citadel, though. You don't have issues with onions, do you?" In the back of her mind, something kicked for her attention, announcing that there hadn't been enough moments like this: just hanging out.

"Leave me my pepperoni, and we're good," Alenko responded.

Shepard grinned up at him. "Sounds good to me."

"Garlic bread or cinnamon bread? It's a package deal."

"We've got ice cream." They actually had sundaes, which would require a pause of the film to construct. Alenko's remark, 'this is me getting to know you' echoed in her ears. Or maybe it was the expression her wore when he caught her hand, holding it for a moment before slipping the jar of cherries away from her, an earnest expression that left her feeling caught between a lump in her throat and hugging him right there.

She'd done neither, but had wrestled down the sudden rush of sentiment. It meant something to her that he was willing to start at square one. It meant enough that she'd lent a hand to help carry the basket between them, his right hand and her left.

"We don't need cinnamon bread, do we?"

"Garlic it is. Estimated delivery…thirty minutes."

"So, do you want to just hang out and start the movie with the food, or do you want to start the movie and pause it to accept the delivery?" Shepard asked, settling onto one end of the couch, curling up as soon as she settled.

"I can wait…it's nice to just, you know," Alenko shrugged, brown eyes fixed on her face.

"Yeah, it is." Silence descended, strangely empty.

"…what did you regret, Shepard?"

Shepard blinked, not realizing she had closed her eyes. "Fewer moments like this." It was the first, easiest, and least painful answer. "Thanks for the bear, by the way." No need to tell him she'd been creeped out by the unexpected box.

"Thanks for the holo. It's nice to have one of you to carry around, you know?"

Shepard tried to smile, but found it brittle. "Ns tend not to carry holos. That way, no one can look in our wallets and see who matters." It was what she'd been told, a standard line for anyone in the N-program. It didn't stop people from doing it, but between prudence and not having anyone she cared enough to keep holos of, it had become a longstanding habit.

"Makes sense," Alenko allowed.

Shepard found herself studying him minutely, noting the suggestion of silver in his hair when he turned his head just right, the creased around his beautiful, long-lashed brown eyes, the softened expression he wore that she didn't know how to read.

"…but say I wanted one for my desk…"

"I'd say we've got fifteen minutes to kill."

Shepard opened her omnitool's display and framed the image she wanted. "Smile."

Alenko did so, an earnest, genuine smile, possibly stemming at the thought of the end result being on her desk. She snapped the shot, then studied it for a moment before lightening the image. "Did you get my good side?"

"What do you think?" she got onto her knees and held out her arm so he could see.

"Looks good."

Shepard settled back in her corner of the couch. It was definitely a more personal image than the one she had on her desk now. And she'd know, every time she saw it, that he was smiling for her, on purpose.

"So they're inducting you tomorrow?"

"Sometime this week. Apparently, they really set some speed records getting you in."

That meant she might not be there for the affair. "Well…if I'm not there…"

"Hey." His fingers found her toes, the nearest part of her to him. "It's okay. You're busy. I know it was probably a little stressful just taking this evening off. To be honest…I wasn't sure you would."

"With a war like this…putting things off doesn't seem like a good philosophy," Shepard answered.

Alenko retracted his hand as far as the cushion between them, giving her a half-smile. "I couldn't agree more."

The hand seemed suggestive, innocently unobtrusive, but offering. Squishing discomfort to do so, Shepard finally mustered the wherewithal to rest hers on top of it.


	229. Helping Hands

Liara looked up at the knock on her door. "Come in!"

The door hissed open to reveal a rather tired-looking Shepard. "Hey, got a minute?" she asked, hiding a massive yawn behind one hand. "I wanted to catch you before shift started."

"I think maybe you ought to have caught a few extra minutes of sleep," Liara observed, swiveling her chair.

Shepard nodded, yawning again. "Sorry, late night."

"Interesting late or boring late?" It would have been unthinkable to hint that she knew _exactly_ where Shepard had been, because there was a subtle brown thread through her drift, a perception Liara immediately attached to Alenko. She hadn't sensed that particular thread in Shepard's drift in a long, long time.

It was good to find it there again.

"Docudrama," Shepard answered.

Oh. Well. That was…disappointing. Of course, she knew it hadn't been a very _intensive_ evening out—Shepard's drift didn't suggest that—but Liara had hoped a nice evening on them, now that she knew who Shepard had been with.

"Enough about my night, I wanted to talk to you for a minute."

"Of course." Liara motioned to the nearest sitting surface, which Shepard settled lightly on.

The soldier considered intently for a moment, then exhaled slowly. "I couldn't help noticing that the bartender at Eternity on Illium is suddenly manning Apollo's here on the Citadel."

Liara smiled. Of course, if Shepard knew that, she'd make sure her crewman was aware, too. But Shepard was a little behind the times…and Liara _was_ an excellent information broker. "You mean the watchdog the asari Matriarchs set to keep an eye on me? Oh, yes. I'm aware."

A weary smile tweaked the corner of Shepard's mouth. "Of course you are. Did you know she's your father?"

"Yes, I do." Liara didn't know how to feel about that bit, personally. Benezia never really talked about Aethyta, but Liara sensed this was partly because some part of her mother regretted choices made. When she'd been old enough to understand that her questions caused her mother pain, she stopped asking them. "It works in my favor though. The Matriarchs could have sent someone much less…sympathetic…to watch me."

"And more trigger happy," Shepard agreed, nodding.

"You like Aethyta?"

Shepard considered, then shrugged. "Yeah, I think so. As long as she's not shooting at you."

"I wouldn't worry too much." The boilerplate reassurance fell easily from her lips.

"Kinda wish she'd been at our Summit. You know?"

"Oh, that would have been interesting," Liara snorted, shaking her head. Wrex's grandstanding would have had even less purchase, and maybe some really zinging commentary might have ensued.

"Undoubtedly. Maybe even too interesting," Shepard allowed.

"I did wonder what you two were chatting about."

"Nothing much. Marking territory, establishing boundaries, that sort of thing."

"Who won?"

Shepard considered, then shrugged. "It wasn't a competition. Just coming to an understanding."

Well, that worked too.

"You didn't know your father, did you?" Shepard asked after a few minutes.

"No. I remember I used to ask my mother about her, when I was very young. I knew I was the product of a pureblood match, but when I realized she regretted some of her choices, and that my questions prodded old pain, I stopped asking. I suppose part of me came to believe my father was dead. Why else would she never reach out to me? Try to find me?"

Shepard's silence grew heavy.

"…are you going to counsel me to go talk to her?" Liara asked, more to fill the silence than because she wanted to ask…or so she told herself. It _had_ come as a bit of a shock to discover her father was alive and stationed within spitting distance of her office—regardless of the real reasons.

Some part of her, a part she thought long since satisfied and moved on, still had questions. Why hadn't her parents wanted to stay together? What pushed them apart? Why hadn't Aethyta ever tried to get in contact with her? Why, why, _why_ …

"Do you think you need to?"

Liara looked up from her knees to find Shepard's head cocked curiously. "That's not an answer."

Which was, in itself, sort of an answer: she wanted to hear Shepard encourage her to do this, needed the second opinion (or gentle bump with the boot) to get past her own inhibitions.

"I think you should at least level with Aethyta. You know she's pretending not to watch you, she knows you're pretending not to watch her. Seems like a lot of wasted effort."

Liara nodded. "How's Alenko?"

Shepard's drift fluxed, as if wondering why this question came out of left field (whatever that meant). "He's fine. They let him out of the hospital the other day…Liara T'Soni, you look very guilty. I'm beginning to think I'm the only one who thought he was in fragile condition."

Liara blushed, though perhaps not for the reason Shepard assumed. "We-ell…I might have been the first one he was really awake for and I didn't…tell you…"

Shepard ran a hand through her hair with a heavy sigh. "You know what? It's not my business." And, with that, Liara saw and sensed Shepard write any surprise and puzzlement off, in big capital letters.

"Don't worry, Shepard. We all know Alenko is yours," Liara chuckled. Alenko had been Shepard's—so to speak—for almost as long as she, Liara, had known them…barring a rocky patch they seemed to be getting off of.

Shepard did not take the bait. "Who's we?"

"Well, you, Garrus, me, and Alenko himself, of course. Oh, and Wrex, I suppose."

"That's an awful lot of people," Shepard almost groaned. "I don't even know how the Spectres would view something like that."

"Spectres don't actually have fraternization rules," Liara supplied helpfully. "It's only an issue if it gets in the way of a mission. _Then_ they throw the book at you."

Shepard chuckled. "And you just knew that off the top of your head?"

"I hoped it might come up."


	230. Across the Universe

"Shepard!"

Shepard jumped, banging her knee sharply on the desk as Wrex pounded on the office door.

"I need to talk to you."

"Come on in!" she answered, rubbing the injury and trying not to sound aggrieved. Sometimes, the number of bruises she ended up with by racking her knee on this desk or the fridge beside it staggered her.

Wrex lurched in, remembering just in time not to plop down in the (rather delicate) empty office chair. It was far from 'lowering himself gracefully' but his sudden weight didn't wreck the chair. Wrex blinked at her for a few minutes. "You smell like essence of dumbass," he announced, sniffing loudly and obviously as if hoping to come up with a different answer.

Since that was how he so often referred to Alenko, Shepard supposed that was what Wrex smelled. "I was watching TV with him last night."

"Uh-huh. TV."

Shepard laughed. "Wow, Wrex. You sound like someone's dad."

"Just trying to look out for you," he grunted.

"Wow." Shepard leaned back in her chair, watching the uncomfortable krogan with some amusement. Apparently, it was too close to being something like _feelings_ , Wrex's interest in what she was doing and who she did it with. Thankfully, there was nothing to fuel the krogan's sordid imagination…or his strange sense of righteous indignation on her behalf. "Want to change the subject now? Or do you want to break out Papa Wrex's third degree?"

Wrex snorted. "Anyway. I needed to talk to you."

"Isn't that what we're doing already? Talking?"

Wrex glowered at her.

Shepard smirked back. It had been awhile since she'd been able to put Wrex on the receiving end of bullshit, and it felt _good_.

Wrex snorted, again, shaking his head. "So they let that twerp out of the hospital?"

"Apparently so. But you wanted to talk business?"

"Yeah, and I would if you'd stop sidetracking."

Shepard let out a bark of laughter, then settled back in her chair, the very model of listening attentively.

"I had a scouting team out in the Traverse. Checking into some weird rumors, weird signals, that sort of thing," Wrex began slowly. "Then they went silent. So I put a team on standby to investigate. Aralakh, tough bunch, get the job done types. They're supposed clean up the mess if there was one or handle whatever happened to the scouts."

"And…they've gone silent, too?"

Wrex shook, then, with a deep breath. "No, like I said, they're on standby. You say the word, they go in. The scouts were scouting the Rachni relay. We'd heard rumors of trouble in the area."

Shepard felt the blood rush from her face. "Wrex, the Queen kept to her word. She contacted me through an intermediary on Illium to make sure I knew she was keeping her word." But doubt nibbled at her mind, the doubt of so many species about the trustworthiness—or lack thereof—of other species.

"I know," Wrex answered, holding up a hand. "That's why I sent _scouts_ instead of a scrub team. Find out what was what first. Wouldn't want anyone thinking you weren't trustworthy."

Shepard nodded, sensing the slight bitterness under Wrex's words. He had never agreed with her decision to spare the Rachni Queen on Noveria, and if anyone on that team could have pulled the trigger to return the Rachni to their previous state of assumed extinction, he could have.

"Almost as soon as the scouts hit dirt, they stopped reporting."

"And that's never a good sign," Shepard sighed, settling back in her chair. "Deploy Aralahk, but I'd like to look into this myself. No sense burning bridges unless we know we have to."

Wrex nodded. "I thought you might want to do it that way. I'll put the orders out. If we set a speed record, Aralahk should have a decent forward opening base set up by the time we get there."

Shepard nodded agreement. "Thank you."

Wrex got heavily to his feet, stood there for a few moments, then lumbered out. The weight of the things he hadn't said hung in the air like strangely heavy dust motes.

Alone, Shepard got to her feet.

Rachni.

She'd believed the Queen's assertion that war would not be her choice, believed that the Rachni had been agitated to war by the Reapers—or by Sovereign, _a_ Reaper—to keep the galactic cycle somehow on track. They might have been a menace to the generations fighting them, but would it have been so without Reaper involvement?

Was this betrayal? Or had the Reapers found the Rachni and figured it if worked once…?

Rescue or cleanup? She couldn't really plan ahead, make decisions, until she knew. The not knowing chewed away her good mood of the morning.

"EDI, is everyone on board?"

"No, Shepard. Most prominently among those absent are Primarch Victus, Dr. T'Soni, and Officer Vakarian," EDI answered promptly.

"Would you put out a recall for Normandy personnel? We're leaving earlier than expected. Tell Victus if he can't shake loose, we'll come back for him. I don't think this is going to wait."

"Of course, Shepard. Done. Confirmations for changes of order are already coming in. Primarch Victus says he will make his way back to the ship immediately. He wishes to thank you for manufacturing an excuse not to stick around."

"Oh really?" Shepard asked, a wry grin touching her mouth.

"He has been in meetings all morning," came the illuminating answer.

Which was what Shepard thought was the matter: a man of action stuck in a diplomat's chair with no escape except an emergency on the ship he currently attached himself to. She'd feel bad for him once running away to (or with) the Normandy was no longer an option.

"Excellent. Let me know when everyone's confirmed the change of order. In the meantime…" She settled back at her desk, but the paperwork previously holding her attention no longer held her focus as it had before fears about Rachni came up.


	231. Then and Now

Rachni. The word echoes and reechoed in Shepard's head—from the looks of it, Liara's too. They would both have very strong, very clear memories of the events on Noveria.

Shepard found herself inclining to the hope (or want of a better word) that the Queen had found herself in another Noveria-type situation. She had not forgotten the 'sour yellow note' heard even within the Queen's egg…a song not organic to the Rachni as a people.

And she had had some contact with the Rachni queen before now—a message passed by an asari, willingly working with the Queen as hands within the wider galaxy. And if two commandoes and an asari analogous to being in her late teens could storm Noveria and run right over it…

The Queen wasn't stupid, even if she was some kind of weird space cockroach. Last time, her people had fought from a position of strength and then been exterminated. This time was different and however fast Rachni bred two years wasn't that long.

"So Wrex thinks it's Rachni," Shepard finally announced. "He's got a team on the ground waiting for us."

"I thought the Rachni were all dead," Vega frowned. "Krogan wiped them out."

"That is the _official_ story," Shepard answered carefully. "Saren was fiddling with them, and Cerberus was having some very serious control issues with the ones they were playing with."

"Shepard, she promised," Liara said uneasily. "She promised to disappear and never come back."

"She?" Vega looked from Shepard, to Liara, to Garrus and back.

"There was a Rachni queen on Noveria," Shepard answered. "Probably the last one in existence."

"And you let it _live_?" Vega demanded. "That's just…it's…"

"Great grasp on verbal communication, Vega," Garrus noted, receiving a glare from the marine.

"Shepard, the balance of probability is that the Queen lied," EDI frowned.

"There'd been enough dying that day…and does anyone here find it odd that I was _talking_ to a space-bug?"

EDI blinked at this and Vega's brow furrowed.

"I have no record that the Rachni were capable of higher forms of communication," EDI finally announced.

"That was what I thought, but she definitely pleaded for her life. Besides that, there was another extenuating circumstance: when you hear a 'sour yellow note' that maddens your elders…due consideration should be given," Shepard elaborated, waving a hand vaguely.

She'd caught that strange datum immediately and wondered at it. Knowing what she knew about the Reapers now, that they controlled the extinction Cycles, it did not surprise her to find that they knew how to push to move galactic events. Fighting the Rachni led to uplifting the krogan; the Krogan Rebellions led to the rise of the turians within galactic society; turians started the First Contact War, which led humans to dig in their heels and fight their way onto the galactic stage. Like dominoes.

She'd have to ask Javik about the wars in his Cycle, see if there were any discernible patterns.

"And the decision to utterly destroy a species is not only harder to make than you might think," Liara put in, "but it's not the decision of one person."

"You think the Reapers Indoctrinated the Rachni?" Vega asked doubtfully.

"I think the Reapers _stimulated_ the Rachni, stirred them up. If it's the Queen, we'll have to see what she has to say."

Liara patted Shepard's shoulder. "It was the right decision."

"At the time," Shepard sighed, shaking her head. Unfortunately, times changed and she might just be looking at a good decision at the time that people ended up paying for later. "What do you know about Aralakh company?"

Liara brightened at the change in subject. "Not much more than Wrex told you—they're krogan commandos, very notorious in a very short span of time. They're a mix of clans, one of Wrex's progressive ideas."

"Fight together, bleed together, stay together," Shepard promptly surmised. It was a good plan, and since krogan liked to fight and were durable from all those redundant systems, they would have more time to learn the concept and learn it more quickly than the more delicate species.

"Exactly. From all indications it's working quite well. An example that cooperation is not overrated."

Shepard nodded. "Who's the CO?"

Liara shifted. "…I'm not entirely certain."

Shepard frowned at her.

"I can't know everything," Liara pointed out.

"You're an awful liar, Liara," Shepard chuckled.

"Only around some people," the asari frowned primly. "Wrex told me I didn't know anything just in case I knew something. From that leer…I decided to humor him and not go digging too hard."

"Oh boy," Shepard sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I may strangle him." Or maybe not. Wrex knew she didn't like surprises and wasn't fond of people springing them on him. The simple fact that he was playing this game suggested she knew the CO already…and she could only think of one krogan she knew well enough for Wrex to be playing these silly games.

Well, better silly ones than bloody ones. It would be good to know if Grunt was okay.

"I would pay to see that," Garrus put in promptly.

"Seconded," Vega raised a hand.

Shepard had to laugh at that.

"I have made assays about strangulation with regards to krogan. I have forwarded them to your private terminal," EDI announced.

Silence and a smile that fell off Shepard's face to shatter on the ground ensued.

"…that was a joke," EDI declared.

"…you're…getting better," Shepard allowed, relaxing. She never felt comfortable assuming the AI was joking, although she found EDI's interest in humor curious. She wasn't sure it was relative to Joker at all, but a genuine, personal interest on the AI's own part.

"I will reassess my timing."

"Or the subject," Garrus muttered, shaking his head.

That was really something coming from Garrus; he'd been as typical as most of his people on the subject of krogan when they first met. Now, he respected Wrex and (she suspected) liked Grunt…after his own fashion.


	232. Standing Tall

Vega regarded the area as the team climbed out of the Kodiak. The sandy world with its major rock formations was pretty enough to look at. It was also crawling with krogan, big, tough-looking fellas all of whom had a kind of swagger and all of whom regarded the motley group of humans and aliens disgorged from the shuttle with a mix of challenging interest—but without abandoning their tasks, so he couldn't call it 'hostile interest.'

"Shepard!" A krogan who looked younger—or at least less scarred—hurried up to greet her, elbowing his way through some of his comrades who didn't move fast enough in getting out of his way. He grinned widely, bright blue eyes fixed on Shepard as he cuffed her several times, sending her swaying back and forth with the exuberance of the greeting.

"Grunt!" Shepard cuffed him right back, less exuberantly, but studied him closely. Apparently, she was glad about what she saw. "What are you doing here?" There was a look on Shepard's face he'd never seen there before; it was a proud and joyous mix that indicated there was not only history here, but that Shepard was very fond of the krogan and genuinely glad to see he'd advanced in the galaxy.

"Could ask you the same question," Grunt answered, crossing his arms. "But I won't. Wrex briefed me. You and your _team_ are here as our… _experts_." The krogan raised his voice and cast a significant look at his own assembled team, most of whom were shooting Garrus homicidal looks when they weren't eyeing Shepard speculatively. His tone suggested that Shepard would eat anyone who gave her crap alive and _he_ wouldn't stop her. Anyone who had a problem with the turian that they couldn't handle for themselves would have it handled for them…by Grunt himself.

Vega had the feeling that if this Grunt guy was in charge, then his preferences would be the ones entertained.

"So, who's 'our' in this?" Shepard asked, as if she hadn't heard the parcel of warnings. He noticed, then, that her posture was weird, presenting a clear challenge to any takers…and the confidence that she could put anyone stupid enough to challenge her ass-first into the dirt.

She'd worked with krogan before, on two of her campaigns; it was probably a social thing, just to let everyone know where they stood. Krogan respected strength, even if they didn't respond well to intimidation, and Shepard definitely seemed like the toughest non-krogan here…but he also had the distinct impression that Shepard had done something to establish herself among the krogan. They were big into shows of strength and just talking about it didn't do anything for them.

"Aralakh Company," Grunt answered enthusiastically, which was met by a cheer or squad response. Whatever it was, Vega's translator didn't catch it. "They're tough!"

Another cheer.

"Think they're invincible!"

Yet another cheer.

"Reckless, but effective—" then, before they could cheer. "—and nosey as hell!"

Not cheers, but definitely trash talk ensued…but the assembled krogan went back to their tasks. It looked like prep work.

"Because _that_ doesn't sound familiar at all," Shepard answered wryly, her mouth twisting into a wolfish grin.

Grunt gave a chuckle that made Vega's neck prickle but which elicited something like indulgent amusement from Shepard and Garrus. "I learned from the best. What's that?" he pointed at EDI.

"Hello, Grunt. It is good to see you still out of your tank," EDI answered.

Grunt's expression rounded. "Got tired being a ship, huh?"

"Something like that," EDI responded coolly. "It is good to see you well."

Grunt nodded once, then turned to Vega himself, blue eyes flicking about.

"Liara T'Soni—SR-1 ground crew," Shepard indicated Liara.

"She's cute. But can she fight?" Grunt asked.

Liara smiled and curled a fist which immediately wrapped itself in biotic blue. "I might throw like a girl, but I think could get _you_ over that cliff wall there. Shall we give it a try?" Her tone was so sweet that it could only be a promise, and the krogan caught it.

Grunt nodded approvingly.

"And this is Lt. James Vega. My new guy."

Grunt swaggered up to him, sticking his nose in Vega's face in a way he hadn't done for EDI or Liara. "He looks new and shiny," Grunt leered, bringing with him a wash of a smell Vega could only describe as 'krogan.' It was manageable, but it was quite a smell…and not a nice one, either. "Can I play with him?" The krogan seemed to loom over him, expanding into a wall of formidable sapient.

Vega glared at him, planting his feet and squaring his shoulders as he did so. The way Shepard refused to comment on the byplay—in fact, she and Garrus both seemed quite interested in how it played out—indicated it was his problem and he had to deal with it. She wasn't going to spoon feed him…which, given the situation, would probably do more harm than good anyway. "Play with yourself," he shot back, wondering whether punching the krogan on the nose would be necessary. He _didn't_ like the guy that close to him.

He heard Shepard snort and Garrus mutter something to which Shepard and Liara both expressed agreement.

Grunt glared and loomed for a few moments; Vega glared and bristled for a few seconds longer. Then suddenly, with a burst of laughter, Grunt whacked Vega so hard on the back that it took everything for the marine not to stagger. "He's got a quad." Just like that, the intimidation vanished. "You need that if you're running with _her_."

"Thanks." …had he just been screened for fitness by a _krogan_?

"So now I know why Wrex was being coy about Aralakh's CO," Shepard declared.

Grunt drew himself up. "It's my privilege to lead this honored company. We're from a lot of different Clans, warriors of distinction. We represent one of Wrex's new ideas."

Shepard nodded at this. "Wrex always was a forward thinker."


	233. Dumped

The place unnerved Javik on a deep level, but he couldn't say why. Every cell in his very being, however, said that going into that hole was _the forebear of all bad ideas._ He could smell the wrongness, sensed that the krogan smelled it too.

Thus, he followed at Shepard's shoulder, trying not to give the impression of hovering by glaring at everyone and everything. Strangely enough, during the sizing-up phase of Aralakh's and Shepard's team's initial meeting, he had been spared the posturing. The krogan all looked at him, but unlike most of the species Javik had encountered so far, they didn't seem to think _what_ he was of any concern. They seemed to pick up that he was a warrior and would not put up with any bullshit. So they left him alone, let him get on with his job as it were.

He found their lack of curiosity refreshing.

Less refreshing was the smell lingering in this camp, as if it had been built by some kind of cesspit or cistern of _bad things_.

"You okay?" Shepard asked quietly, as she moved towards the edge of the hole.

Javik scowled at her back before answering: the question as irrelevant. "I would not get that close to the edge, if I were you."

"And what would you do, if you were me?" Shepard asked, unruffled—though she backed away from the edge a little as if to oblige him.

Javik glanced at the hole. "I would rain fire upon this place from orbit and have nothing more to do with it."

Shepard arched her eyebrows as she turned to look at him. "Some people would say nuking a dustball like this was a little extreme. We might need the warheads later."

He chose to interpret this as an invitation to share with the class, rather than her assuming—as so many in this cycle did—that he was fond of extreme solutions. "I know the smell of death, Captain," he answered slowly. "And I smell it. But there is more here."

"Reapers?"

The answer was 'yes and no.' "I think so. I catch…wafts…of something like Reapers. But it is hidden beneath other things."

"Like they _were_ here in force, but now they're not?" she asked gently.

"Like…like Reaper-guts tracked into a repair depot. I do not like the look of this hole."

"Me neither. But guess what?"

Javik sighed. "We will probably end up down there, sooner rather than later." He would never admit that, maybe, part of his dislike of the hole was the knowledge that tunnels were _small_. They were often cramped. Definitely dark.

He _didn't like_ dark, enclosed spaces.

Shepard chuckled. "Balance of probability says yes." She moved into one of the prefabs near the edge. "You gonna be okay down there?" The look she pinned him with dared him to lie to her, as if she already knew that being down there was a potential problem for him.

"War does not allow for such considerations," Javik answered coldly.

"Look. I don't spacewalk. In fact, I don't like looking out windows while we're sub-FTL," Shepard answered darkly, stepping closer. "I have this thing about _space_. So I need to know if your _thing_ about tight, dark spaces is going to cause problems that might get us all killed faster. That's all. No mollycoddling, or worries about sensitive feelings. I just want to hear you say whether or not you're going to be okay down." She punctuated this with another glower.

He could appreciate the pragmatism…and wondered about her aversion to space, since she spent so much time surrounded by it. "I will manage."

"And if you can't?"

It was Javik's turn to glare: all four eyes narrowing. "I will manage. You may shoot me if I…how do you humans say it? Wig out."

Shepard dissolved into chuckles. "I don't even want to know where you found that phrase."

"Is it not appropriate?"

"Oh, it's _appropriate_ , it's just _old_ ," she answered, moving to the other end of the prefab, which hung over the sinkhole.

" _I_ am also old," Javik pointed out, watching the marine's careful progress.

Shepard snorted. "True."

"These Rachni. We had them in my Cycle."

Shepard turned, surprised.

"For us, they were used as dogs of war, to harry the enemy. They were not sentient. We selected among them, picked the most cunning of their queens from which to breed. When they eventually turned on us. We thought we had stamped them out."

"You know, if you were anyone else, I'd suspect you were trying to apologize for missing a few."

"I merely find it interesting that they survived our purges to plague your Cycle."

"…yeah, about that…"

"Yes. Your 'sour yellow note.' I can tell you wish to save this Queen. Do you also wish to rely on an ally so easily corrupted by the Reapers?"

Shepard glared at him. "Two words Javik: the Collectors."

Point taken.

Shepard turned on her heel, moving toward the stable end of the prefab, when suddenly the ground shook, causing shouts and curses from outside. Shepard jumped forward to get off the suspended portion of the prefab, but the ledge beneath was already crumbling, sending her, Javik, and the prefab tumbling into the sinkhole.

Javik, with a shout, _pushed_ against the prefab, shoving it away so it would not fall onto him and Shepard.

The tremor lasted several seconds longer, followed by several seconds of silence.

"Shepard!" Grunt bellowed from the top of the hole. "Shepard! You okay?"

"We're okay!" Shepard called back. "Looks like we're gonna investigate this hole sooner rather than later, though!"

The machine appeared first, landing solidly without concern for dropping the distance. "I have synched Grunt onto our working frequency. Scans indicate the tremor to be resultant of a shift in the tunnels below us."

Liara, Garrus, and Vega followed, the biotic controlling their descent from the lip of the precipice to the upended prefab, then to the bottom of the hole.


	234. Ominous

Liara shivered inwardly as they slipped into the caves. The cool darkness pressed, the silence was eerie and the increased moisture in the air gave the place a dank, ominous feeling. She remembered all too clearly that horrible day on Noveria. Her mother had died, but the Queen had lived. That hadn't bothered her at the time—there had been too much death already.

But it looked to her like that decision might just be coming back to bite them. She bit her lip as they moved forward, soft-footed and alert.

"So what would Reaper-ized Rachni look like, do you think?" Garrus asked softly.

"Ugly," came Shepard's succinct answer.

Garrus frowned at her. "Thanks Shepard. That was very helpful. I'll remember it, too: ugly."

Shepard chuckled at this. "Always glad to help."

"Shepard, I have found one of the krogan scouts," EDI abruptly announced, sauntering over to the corpse. "He has been dead for several days."

"Standard krogan overkill or was he being serious?" Shepard asked, picking up the weapon that lay near him before handing it to Garrus.

"Krogan with a flamethrower? Hard to tell," Garrus responded. "But he'd been burning fuel on whatever was in here. This says half empty."

"Hey Grunt? I've got a dead scout here—you think the flamethrower he's packing is just for fun?"

" _Overkill is underrated, Shepard. We're seeing a couple like that ourselves, so it looks like they needed the firepower—pun intended. Pick it up and hang onto it. Just in case._ "

Shepard nodded. "Right."

Garrus handed the flamethrower to Vega with a lopsided grin.

Vega checked it, radiating pea soup-green apprehension.

Liara wondered if it was Rachni, Reapers, or just being underground like this that bothered him. Goodness knew being underground was problem enough for her; she couldn't stop thinking about how many metric tons of rock were currently sitting over their heads. Throw in Reaper-ized Rachni and it made her want to flare nervously…but she knew that kind of show would only make other people nervous. She hadn't appreciated how much time out of the field had made her jumpier, less calm.

"Look at this," Liara called, disliking how loud her voice seemed in the stillness. She edged closer to the mess she'd only just caught as she'd looked around.

"Is that…webbing?" Vega asked, poking the mass suspiciously with his newly appropriated Firestorm.

"It is webbing in form, but scans indicate it is actually a synthetic mesh—possibly grown on an original now-defunct organic base," EDI supplied.

"Reaper tech," Shepard and Garrus paraphrased.

Vega immediately stepped back.

"Easy," Shepard prompted, sticking out a hand so he didn't accidentally step on her before moving around him to examine the webbing herself. "Grunt. Confirming Reaper presence—we've got this weird synthetic webbing."

" _Great. Reapers and Rachni. What a combination…crap. It's up here, too._ "

Liara shivered. Regular Rachni had been nasty things from the little scuttle-y ones to the big warrior drones, to the Queen herself. She was with Shepard: ugly was the best way to describe them, because Rachni were bad enough on their own…Reapers would just make them worse.

"EDI. We may need to—" Shepard began.

"If you say 'bug out' I quit," Garrus interjected.

Liara stifled a laugh when Garrus winked at her. It broke up the tension a little…but only a little.

"—leave in a hurry," Shepard finished pointedly. "See if you can find out how many surface access points there are and keep tabs on our locators."

"I will do so," EDI responded. "You should know that the rock structures here are interfering with scans, but do not completely block them. A locator would need to remain stationary to get a proper reading."

"Good to know," Shepard nodded.

And not at all comforting. "Did you hear that?" Liara asked, looking behind them.

"No, what?" Vega asked edgily.

"I don't know…it was quiet, but…" she shook her head.

"Up there!" Shepard barked.

Looking up was not a natural action and she found herself reminded of it.

"Ugh!" Vega grimaced.

'Ugh' just about summed it up. There was enough distance to make the thing less disgusting than it probably was, but there was no mistaking 'Reaper-ized Rachni.' About the size of the fighter-drones, it was darker in color and apparently had targeting lasers—there was no other explanation for the blue beams that sent the teams scattering for cover, or the projectiles that followed.

"I'm with you, Shepard! Gross!" Garrus barked.

"I told you so!" Shepard answered.

'Gross' was right, too: the thing had bloated, fleshy sacs that probably weren't just there to look disgusting.

Garrus popped up, sighted with his rifle, and let off a shot. The shot punctured the most prominent of the pale nodules. "Shepard! Those things are full of the little ones!"

"Hence the flamethrower!" Vega called back. "Which has a _really_ short reach!"

"I've got it," Liara barked, her biotics flaring. She got to her feet, reached out and enveloped the Rachni and pulled it straight into the ground with as much force as she could manage. There was a nasty crunching sound, but from the way it twitched and tried to get ups he hadn't slammed it hard enough to kill it.

In moments, the rest of the team sent a barrage towards it that made the thing jerk and spasm as she held it down.

"Shepard, all readings are negative. I believe it is dead," EDI announced.

Liara followed at Shepard's shoulder as Shepard edged towards the corpse.

" _Shepard, I heard that from here—is it big?_ "

"Bigger than Urz," Shepard answered. "Confirm Reapers and Rachni."

" _Having second thoughts about that queen yet?_ "

Shepard was silent for a moment, then shook her head despite Grunt not being able to see it. "I don't think she's in on this willingly. Not for a second time."

Liara agreed, and nodded to show her agreement. It had only been _ex post facto_ that she'd really considered how ugly the Queen's position had been.


	235. Scream

Author's Note: Okay, writing this chapter made me very uncomfortable, so let me pass that along in case this kind of material is triggering to anyone. This chapter does deal with the fact that the Rachni Queen was in a position of forced pregnancy. I'm a little sensitive to these sorts of things, so I don't think it's too heavy-handed, but if you decide to skip this chapter, you won't miss anything but character development.

-J-

She called herself The Mother, because that was what she was. And once again The Mother found herself trapped—but this time not by needle-men, but by the monsters with the sour yellow song. She had fought and screamed…but no one had heard her. The Machines had cornered her, chained her, done…something…to her to ensure their need for her children was met. It was unnatural and she'd screamed for long ages. Screams became whimpers. Whimpers became silent defeat—hence why she'd stopped eating the scavenged offerings—now containing dead krogan, which couldn't make her situation any better. She couldn't hurt herself, she was bound too tightly, but she could starve…if she really tried. To say that the dead krogan looked appetizing was not inaccurate.

But something new had happened. She could hear it in the silence around the chamber in which she was imprisoned, silence which eventually began to break as living voices began to echo.

And gunfire.

She didn't want to die. But she didn't want to live like this, either. She wanted to scream.

Abruptly, many of the two-legged things entered the chamber.

"Whoa…" one of them muttered, half-lowering his weapon.

One of the females moved forward, lowering her own firearm and sighing heavily. "Hello again."

The Mother would have recognized this human anywhere and couldn't decide whether The Shepard's presence was a good thing or not. On the one hand, the Solider had sung pardon for one who had never lifted a claw against anyone; on the other hand, The Mother was here…in the Machines' place.

There was only one thing to say. The Mother tugged on the dead, used their voices, harsh and deep, to give names to the colors she didn't understand. "We remember."

"Again?" The Daughter asked, moving to stand beside The Shepard.

"Looks like," The Shepard answered, attaching her weapon to her back and moving closer. "Excuse me."

The Mother wished she wouldn't, too aware as The Shepard examined the binding cables that her drones did not like their queen so close to her. She hunkered down, belly digging into the stone as tiny hands found where the cable ended and her carapace began.

"How did this happen?"

"…we followed our promise," The Mother answered. "We went away, vanished. We had beautiful children and sang to them." It hurt her to remember that joyous time. She had sung to the children of cruel men in white coats…but also of The Shepard through whose mercy their song might continue. A creature who saw in a 'beast' something as worthy of due consideration as any other sapient.

The question was whether The Shepard would blame her for this or not.

"But the Machines returned. They heard our song…and they came for us."

"What's _this_?" The Shepard asked, having worked her way along the network of cables, rapping the Machines' device with one hand to indicate what 'this' was.

"…it takes our choice so they may take our children." She felt guilty…dirty…for having admitted it. She wanted to scream, to bite, to claw at the Machines who had done this to her. And, she thought darkly, if she lived through this encounter she would do it—she would send her children out into the galaxy not to savage the warm ones but to sink their claws and teeth into the Machines. She could not send them alone, of course, but she would send them…and no one knew better where they would be of best use than The Shepard.

Why else would she be here?

A small hand appeared to pat her carapace almost soothingly. "Let me see if I can get this off you. It might hurt a little."

"It cannot hurt more than it does." The Mother closed her mouth as tightly as she could as something sharp and cold slipped beneath the device and began to work around, finding the anchoring pegs. She would never admit it, but it was uncomfortable.

"Damn, these go in deep. EDI, come have a look at this."

The silver one moved forward. She had no aura, she had no smell of her own. She was not like the others. But she came and studied the Machines' device. "The anchors go through her carapace," 'EDI' announced. "Judging by location and what I can see of the anchoring, this device is forcing her to reproduce at an unnatural rate."

The comforting hand appeared again. "Can we get it off?"

"The anchors seem to be simply anchors. They would not want to damage their organic incubator."

"It cannot hurt worse than it does," The Mother repeated.

"Alright. EDI, hold this for me."

It _did_ hurt, but not as much as The Mother expected. From the sounds, The Shepard (or her EDI) was simply clipping the anchors to remove the device. It hit the ground a moment later and the painful burning unpleasantness, the lancing pains that governed her functions stopped. "I'm going to have to pull these out. This is _really_ going to hurt."

"The pain is nothing."

The Shepard wasn't lying about the pain. It took everything The Mother had not to thrash and scream as the first spike driven into her flesh was pulled out.

"Can I help?" The Daughter asked, keeping a respectful distance.

"She's in bad shape to begin with. Slap a medigel patch on there. Omnigel seal," The Shepard answered brusquely. "It's gonna be okay…"

"Shepard…is this really a good idea?" one of the males asked.

"Forced pregnancy to aid the Reapers. _Anything_ is a better idea than that," The Shepard growled, grunting as she worked another spike loose. More hands appeared to press cold gel over the wound, closing it. "Easy, easy," she breathed, patting The Mother's heaving side before readdressing her Drones. "Set up a defensive line. I don't think anyone's going to notice this _thing_ going offline right away—" A boot connected with the device. "—but it doesn't hurt to be safe."

This time, The Mother couldn't quite stifle her scream.


	236. Person

"Last one!" Shepard barked before dragging the last anchor out of the Queen's body. The anchors went deep, and EDI did not miss the (Shepard: distress) each time she dragged one of the long anchors out any more than she missed the (Shepard: disgust) as she cast the spike away.

Liara immediately rubbed medigel over the wound, looking (Liara: troubled) then went back to apply omnigel to function as seals over the wounds, murmuring softly to the Queen as she did so.

The Queen's sides heaved as she collapsed to the ground, panting and letting off a high frequency sound that EDI was sure none of the others could hear. If they could, they'd be wincing. There was something (shorthand: pitiable) watching the Queen shiver and mewl.

"It's okay," Shepard soothed, patting the Queen's side. "They can't hurt you anymore."

"Yes," the Queen agreed, the krogan voice suddenly thinner, weaker. "But we know what comes next," the Queen announced a moment later. "You sang mercy for us amidst the ice. Now you find us here…and fight our children."

EDI cocked her head. Was that something like uncertainty in the Queen's translating voices?

She considered her vast records of history and concluded that had something like this happened to a 'sentient' (as had happened several times over recorded centuries) there would have been no question of blame being assigned to the birthmother.

On the other hand, the Rachni were not listed as being sentient—they were space-bugs, wiped out by the krogan when they tried to overrun the galaxy.

And yet it was clear that Shepard didn't see a space-bug, but a creature with complicated feelings, something capable of communication, something that felt pain and fear and which had just fallen back into the trap she had already escaped.

It was curious that the Reapers had simply not Indoctrinated the Queen, that they had relied upon bonds and a device to ensure her cooperation. Did Rachni not respond to the Reapers' influence the same way as other organics did? Or had the Reapers simply not bothered with what they considered to be little more than an animal.

It was not the first time that EDI had wondered about Shepard. Shepard saw _people_ where most people saw animals…or machines. Shepard made no distinction between EDI as a crewman than she did Garrus as a crewman, or Vega, or Liara. They were not just _individuals_ , they were simply _people_ —no matter how their physical makeups differed.

"I can't imagine this was on any of the recruiting posters," Shepard growled, more to herself than to anyone else. "Listen, be square with me: can you still hear the Reapers? Can they influence you?"

Vega scoffed as if to imply that _anyone_ in the Queen's position would lie.

He was most likely correct—who would want to admit to anything that might result in death (or, in her own case, non-functionality)?

"…we hear the Machines," the Queen answered, "but they cannot influence us."

EDI cocked her head, then glanced at the others, noting the various shades of surprise on their faces. It was a brave thing to admit to. It also added to her curiosity about the Reapers' and their choices in this situation. If the Rachni did not Indoctrinate as others did, that implied the possibility of something that could protect against it—like Dr. Solus' Seeker swarm countermeasures.

But it was just as likely the Reapers simply hadn't concerned themselves with taking the time.

"Are you capable of aiding the war effort against the Reapers?" Shepard pressed.

The Queen bristled, abandoning her submissive posture and hissed so viciously, as she pushed herself as high as she could before her restraints stopped her, that Vega might have shouldered his rifle if Garrus hadn't stuck out an arm to prevent him. "We _hate_ the machines!" the Queen hissed, the rough krogan voices lending depth to the words, rendering them in shades of rage and the deepest, bitterest hatred almost a howl for vengeance. "We will fight for our unborn children! We will join _you_!"

EDI thought she caught a very specific inflection there, that 'you' was specifically Shepard and not 'all organics.' Probably wise, since Shepard was such an anomaly among sapients. Nevertheless, the Queen's vehemence hinted at the human maxim 'the most dangerous thing in the galaxy is a mother defending a child.'

It was strange for the Queen to manage to inject so much emotion into the normally so toneless voices of the krogan through whom she communicated.

"Alright," Shepard produced her field knife. "We're getting you out of here."

"That is the last shackle," the Queen indicated the last node as she stopped bristling. "But we think releasing us will bring the children…and they do not know us…me."

Shepard paused, then her expression firmed up, her eyes narrowed and something about her seemed to go into effect, like watching an engine rev to life. For a moment she calculated, then nodded confirmation of her own plan. "Okay, things are going to happen fast. I need you to trust me," she addressed the Queen. "Grunt—we're about to stir this place up. Fall back to my location. EDI, destroy the node, Garrus, help me get these cables loose."

" _Shepard?_ " Grunt prompted (Grunt: edgily).

"The central chamber's gonna get swarmed! I don't know which corridor they're gonna take so you need to get here _now_!" Shepard drew her field knife and began sawing at the webbing that restrained the Queen.

EDI moved towards the node, leveled her pistol and opened fire.

"…the children are coming," the Queen announced through her krogan interpreters, and again EDI thought she heard an inflection like fear. "They will kill us!"

"No they won't," Shepard answered, as the Queen began to struggle against the webbing, the added pressure snapping the restraints faster than Shepard and Garrus could cut all the way through them, expediting the process.

EDI joined Liara and Vega, both of whom radiated their own profile-match of nervousness.


	237. Firestorm

"Grunt! You get your and your team down here pronto!" Shepard snarled into the radio, cold sweat of fear standing out on her forehead.

As much as she hated it, she knew what to do, here. It was how the batarians held off the Alliance on Mindoir: small resistance forces that the Alliance could push against. They gave ground not because they were being pushed back, but because it let them whittle at the Alliance. The Alliance would push harder sensing 'retreat' only to be off balance when the batarians dug their heels in, or found themselves turned out of position as they pushed against enemy forces. Response times dulled when the expected gave way to the unexpected. There was a reason it was covered in tactics.

Shepard was moving as the Queen disappeared up the tunnel. "I need a volunteer for going off the wire!"

Vega immediately complied, shrugging off his locator.

It was an unnerving feeling, Shepard knew, to be off the wire, but this was a time when comfort was secondary to mission success. He wouldn't be alone for long.

"Vega!" She jerked her chin at the generator. Vega, although looking discontented, moved to obey. "Joker!" she struggled out of her own locator belt, manufactured a unit of omnigel and anchored the belt to the nearest wall. "When I give the signal I want you to hit my locator with everything you've got. When Vega's locator reaches… this point… let me know. And let me know once it's out of the cave system."

" _Aye…aye?_ "

The best answer was, of course, to crater this place. "EDI, I need a safety margin for cratering this place—"

BOOM! A second later a wall gave out, disgorging very grumpy looking krogan.

"Stand by," she directed, holding up a hand to the krogan.

"Calculation complete," EDI responded promptly. "Routing to your omnitool."

Shepard frowned at the calculations. They didn't have the best safety margins.

"Shepard…" Garrus rumbled, his mandibles working.

The krogan, already restless, fanned out, looking at the chamber's many points of entry, growling softly.

She heard the skittering that left Garrus edgy, but forced herself to ignore it. "Alright fellas: this—wait." The dead krogan: many of them still had their Firestorms strapped to their backs. Many of the remaining Aralakh kogan had Firestorms. "Hey Liara—how do you feel about throwing accelerant around?"

"I can spatter that stuff like you've never seen, Shepard," Liara almost purred.

"Everybody move fast! Grab all the accelerant reservoirs you can. Grab the whole gun and shuck it—this is a running battle!"

"You heard her!" Grunt's voice—whatever his discontent, which was plain—boomed out, shaking the cavern. "Get to it!" and he immediately joined Shepard in clearing Reaper webbing so they could get to the guns.

"Shepard, there is a large force or Rachni _en route_. Estimated arrival…thirty seconds!" EDI announced, her calm monotone contrasting weirdly with plans of fire and the need to _run_.

"Okay—everyone that way!" The best way out was the one the Queen had taken. It would put them all in the same area when they got out, no need to go hunting for one another. I want a ring of krogan shotguns here at the rear! Liara you're the rank behind, Grunt, with me, Vega—take us the hell out of here!"

She didn't need to tell Garrus where to go—he knew where he'd be needed. She didn't need to tell EDI either, since the synthetic would calculate where her platform could do the most damage or the most good.

"Are there any biotics in here?" Shepard demanded as the group crossed the chamber at a jog, the stone thrumming under the weight of so many krogan feet.

"I've got three!" Grunt called. "You lot, fall back and do what she tells you!" The 'or else I'll stake you out for the Rachni to nibble' didn't need to be said.

"If I pop this, can you spatter the contents?" Shepard asked as they reached the tunnel leading out.

"Sure." Came three voices.

"Shepard! Just pitch it! I'll plug it!" Garrus barked from further back.

"Tell me when! Liara, you know. You," Shepard directed to the nearest krogan, "you make sure my tech mines hit that stuff nice and square."

"Hn."

"You and you—I want you at the head of the column. If we run into problems, you use a barrier to push them out of the way. Let's bulldoze our way out of here!" Adrenaline made her hands shake. The words made the krogan bellow an agreement—or maybe just a challenge to the Rachni. The team moved at a controlled pace, following Vega's lead.

"When!" Garrus barked.

Shepard threw one of the accelerant tanks. Garrus' rifle barked. Liara _pushed_ the accelerant, and the krogan caught the tech mine Shepard threw and landed it squarely in the glistening patch of gel. It went up in a flash of heat, singing the noses, antennae and forefeet of the first wave of Rachni troopers. "Shotguns!" Shepard shouted as the initial burst of flames died. Rachni scrabbled over their dead, keening and chittering as they came.

She couldn't get to her shotgun, not if she wanted to be able to throw accelerant—which she grabbed from beneath the nearest krogan's arm. She launched another tech mine, which the krogan caught and simple _pushed_ into the Rachni mass. The flames exploded sending a rank smell of cooking exoskeleton. "Hold position! Push 'em back but don't follow!"

The instant the Rachni stopped and began to withdraw, Garrus began to yell, "Go, go, go! While they're thinking!"

The mass of fighters fell back, moving at a decent clip.

"They're coming!" Shepard shouted, stopping where she was.

Shotguns began to bark, almost obscuring Garrus' "When!" to prompt the next reservoir of accelerant.

"Watch our flanks! They might try getting around us!" EDI called, her voice rising easily above the din, the whole cacophony amplified by rock walls and tightly-strung nerves.


	238. Stygian

It was surreal and nightmarish. Garrus could hear the Queen far ahead of them, her movements strangely uncoordinated. She sounded like an injured person clawing their way to help or safety. Dark patches on the stone below evidenced the Queen's passage.

Behind the column of Normandy personnel and Aralakh krogan, the Reaper-perverted Rachni chittered and hissed.

Garrus hated Rachni. It was hard to shoot the little, skittering ones when your favorite weapon was made for distance. "When! Vega! You see the exit?" He watched the canister, this time flung by one of the krogan, arc into the air. As it descended, he plugged it with a concussive round, spattering the contents. He wished it made decent shrapnel.

The accelerant lit spectacularly, throwing bright orange light everywhere, revealing a seething, writhing, seemingly _living_ floor beyond the burning accelerant, a kind of carpet of Rachni that retreated from the light, only to surge forward again, the bodies of their fallen disappearing.

He wondered if the Reaper-Rachni ate their own dead…then decided he didn't want to know.

"Not yet!" the marine answered. "We've gotta be getting close! I think I can feel the air moving!

"We're running low on accelerant!" Shepard's voice called from the back of the column, tight with tension. "Three more cans!"

Shit.

"We're almost there!" Vega shouted back, though whether this was true or not, Garrus didn't know. He couldn't turn to look and see if it seemed brighter up ahead: the ground had suddenly developed gravel.

A krogan shouted from trailing end of the column. Garrus watched in sick fascination the krogan somehow lost his balance, tripped, fell, and in his disorientation followed the pull of gravity back down the tunnel.

The Rachni swarmed the bellowing krogan. Biotic light flared as Rachni were flung away to spatter as they impacted on the walls, but there were more Rachni behind.

"No!" Javik grabbed Shepard by the arm and clumsily pushed her up ahead. His own green biotics swept across the corridor as he continued backing up, causing the Rachni to pile up on themselves as they nibbled and investigated the sudden barricade.

"Garrus! You want us to light these things up or what?" Grunt's voice boomed off the walls.

"When!"

Javik dropped the barrier, the sudden disappearance of which momentarily confused the Rachni.

The accelerant settled and lit up, like flames out of a grill. There were too many Rachni though, and the biotic pulses didn't last long after the flare of light and searing heat from the accelerant.

"Two more!" Shepard shouted, voice clawing out of the darkness.

"Machine! Are we clear?" Javik demanded, lashing out with his biotics and leaving dark stains on both sides of the tunnel.

"Not yet," EDI answered. "Give it another two hundred meters."

"We've gotta be getting close to the entrance, though!" Vega panted. "I really do feel cooler air!"

"Yes, we are," came the AI's prompt response. "But scans indicate cratering the main chamber will cause destabilization in the immediate region. The entire nesting complex will pancake."

Vega groaned audibly.

Garrus wanted to. He didn't blame EDI for keeping that little detail between her and Shepard.

"Just keep running!" Shepard snarled from the rear.

"When!" Garrus called.

Again, the accelerant arced. Again, he popped the can, and again the Rachni lost more of their numbers. He couldn't help noticing that, at this point, they were only the little ones. Spirits, please let that be because they'd scared or killed all the bigger ones…

…and spirits, please let this tunnel end _soon_.

Garrus could smell it now, the freshening of the air Vega assured them was there. "We're almost out!"

"One more can of accel—"

Grunt reached out as Shepard's footing slipped on a treacherous piece of ground, catching her arm before shoving her toward the head of the column. "Get my men out of here!"

"Grunt!" Shepard bellowed, regaining her footing.

Blue targeting lasers suddenly appeared at an angle suggesting a side passage. For a horrifying moment, Garrus wondered if the Rachni weren't herding them into a trap or dead end.

"Get her out of here! Go on! Get out! You too, Urz! Go!" Grunt let look a howl that seemed to shake the caves, which mingled with the sharp worried barks of Urz the varren.

Garrus blinked. When had the varren joined the group? Or had it just seemed such a normal thing for a krogan commando team to have that he hadn't really paid attention?

"Garrus! Last one!" Shepard barked.

"When!"

The can arced, popped, spattered, and ignited, throwing Grunt, who had fallen behind, and the Rachni into sharp relief.

There were more of the big ones, their progress unimpeded by their smaller, scuttling brethren, whom they simply flattened as they came.

"I am Urdnot Grunt!" Grunt roared, charging forward, seizing one of the big Rachni and slamming it to the ground with all the strength he had.

"Grunt!" Shepard's voice tore from her throat.

"Get going!" Grunt panted, battering another Rachni with his shotgun before unloading the weapon in its face.

Two of Aralakh grabbed Shepard, clearly intending to ensure their commander's instructions were carried out.

Suddenly, they turned a corner and Garrus found himself charging across sand under open sky in open air. Ahead, the Rachni queen lay on the sand, body heaving with breath, though she pushed herself up to regard the stream of sapients spilling out of the caves.

Even as he watched, the Normandy swung low overhead, Thanix cannon firing sporadically. The ground began to tremor as Javik, ever-practical, blocked the entrance to the caverns with his biotics.

Shepard stopped near him, plainly of a mind to go back for her crewman.

The ground suddenly began to tremble, then to rock jarringly as the cave complex began collapsing.

"Grunt! Get out of there!" Shepard screamed.

Garrus didn't think Grunt could hear her, nor did he think the krogan was in a position to care.

Eventually, the tremors halted, and a heavy silence descended.


	239. Stymied

The Mother watched as The Shepard and her…others…came pouring out of the caves that had one been home, watched the ship swoop overhead, felt the caverns collapse under the ship's fire. The tremors ran deep, the shrill screams of the children silencing, little pinpricks of erratic light going out.

Without the dead to act as her voice, without them to give names to colors she did not understand, she shuddered at the profound isolation and wondered how they were to communicate now. Every time she nudged at The Shepard, as she might do for another One-Who-Guides-The-Many among her own people, she came up across hard walls, rigid construction. The Song didn't carry.

As she thought about it—now that the threat of being eaten alive and continually having her children birthed and corrupted so she almost couldn't bring herself to call them hers had eased— _all_ the creatures before her…they were _like_ Ones-Who-Guide-The-Many. All of them. Every single one.

The thought nearly took her ragged breath away. Although The Shepard led them, guided them, spoke for them…they were not auxiliary to her in the way of Mothers and Children. These should-be-auxiliary did not _need_ The Shepard's voice.

How lonely. Every creature before her so independent…each an island of Singularity in a sea of similar Singulars. The thought of such isolation, on top of their strange, colorless way of communicating, left her recoiling from such _isolation_.

The Mother recognized The Blue Singular who accompanied The Shepard from the ice and destruction. Something about The Blue Singular's rigid posture struck The Mother as strange. The Shepard's hand on The Blue Singular's shoulder suggested reassurance. The Blue Singular spoke, voice flat, incomprehensible. But the hand that stuck out seemed suggestive, and The Mother had experience with The Blue Singular's people before.

She supposed she understood the unnatural rigidity of posture: nervousness. Unease. Fear. But a fear she apparently was master of.

The Queen reached out one appendage, sensed the willingness to understand, to comprehend, as a weakening of the rigid walls of Self and Singularity.

The Blue Singular called herself Liara, was volunteering to facilitate communication. The question was after The Queen's—what a strange name they used—wellbeing.

The answer was that she was alive. But afraid. The Shepard sang mercy once in the ice, and again in the darkness. But hiding had not worked, and The Mother promised to fight the machines.

The Shepard spoke, her words a whispered chant through The Blue Singular: her ship would take The Mother away from here, to a place of allies—The Shepard's allies. They would discuss how The Mother could contribute to the war effort another time.

The Blue Singular wondered if The Mother knew how she might help, herself. An impression of something large. A machine or weapon…something to use against the Machines.

Could they build…ye-es? If she understood what was needed, she could direct her children. But—

The Mother screamed, hissing and staggered back, away from The Blue Singular, away from the Shepard as the Ancient sauntered up, cold eyes seeing only an animal, just as his forebears had. She had never seen one of his kind, but she knew them from the Mothers' songs: the green ones who wished to take away song, like the Machines, to take away intelligence, to reduce the Ones-Who-Spoke-For-The-Many to animals.

She knew he was there, had understood that he was bound to The Shepard's song, but she had forgotten him. Seeing him so unexpectedly wrenched forth a reaction she might have tried to temper.

The Shepard's voice cut strong and abrupt across the sudden tension, the levelling of weapons and the flare of strange lights.

The Blue Singular approached cautiously, once again holding out a hand, reestablishing herself as a translator. She was not as adept as the poor Sad Blossom, but the Sad Blossom listened to the songs while her single-ness was weak, learned to hear and to share from a position reduced wellness.

The Shepard demanded calmness, citing a long day for everyone, then queried as to the cause of The Mother's sudden agitation, as if it was acceptable to become agitated.

The Ancient simply shrugged, cold eyes seeing only an animal.

It made The Mother want to hiss: the only animals had been his so-called people. Her Mothers remembered.

The Shepard pinched the bridge of her nose, then sent the Ancient into the ship.

He shrugged again, stalking off to the place where the ship now hovered, thrumming with readiness to leave.

The Shepard regarded the cave entrance leading into the ruined complex. For a moment, The Mother heard a faint thread of sadness, twining with regret, and bitter denial, refusal to give up, refusal to believe in death until she couldn't deny it any longer. The Shepard's song. Or was it what The Blue Singular heard and translated?

The Shepard picked up where she left off. She, The Mother, was to travel in the ship. The Ancient and the Krogan would not be allowed to bother her. Would The Mother trust her this little bit? And didn't The Shepard know what a thing to ask for _trust_ was.

But The Mother _did_ trust her. Twice now—once in the ice and again in the dark—The Shepard had rescued her, seeing not as the Ancients did, nor as the Krogan did, but looking past a body so different from her own to see some _one_. She sang mercy, even when she had fought countless Children to reach The Mother. She sang pity and understanding, not blame and anger.

Even if she had not felt predisposed to trust, the situation was simple: it was either trust or face this Machine-infested galaxy alone. That was not something she looked forward to.

So The Mother limped into the ship with all its strange smells, with all its stifled songs, flanked by The Blue Singular and The Shepard.

Once The Mother was settled comfortably on soft mats, The Shepard returned to the sand to wait.


	240. Hungry

Vega stood exactly where he'd stood when the Normandy returned to orbit with all its unconventional passengers. Now, Cortez had arrived and Vakarian ambled out of the shuttle.

Shepard sat on the sand, legs drawn loosely to her chest, rifle on her knees, her eyes fixed on the dark, black maw.

No sign of life had come out of it since the running column burst out of the stinking Rachni-filled darkness. That was no small chunk of time ago, and it was clear Shepard was not willing to give up on Grunt. Thus, her expression was hard, challenging people to tell her to abandon her vigil.

Only a few would.

The footprints of their escape had already begun to vanish in the shifting of the sand. There had been no bugs, no stragglers, and still no sign of Grunt.

Shepard's attention stayed stubbornly fixed on the cave through which they'd come barreling. He could still hear Grunt's last words, snarled as the krogan grabbed Shepard by the arm and flung her into the retreating party. He would have liked to get to know Grunt.

"Shepard?" Garrus said gently, taking a knee beside her. His hand weighed heavily on her shoulder. "It's time. I don't think he's coming out." It seemed to cost Garrus something to say it.

"Just another ten minutes." The words sounded prerecorded. Shepard could probably wait 'another ten minutes' for the rest of time. If will could force reality, Grunt would have come staggering out of that pit. He would have done it ages ago.

"Shepard," Garrus repeated, this time wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Shepard turned into him, and Vega doubted anyone had trouble imagining the look on her face. It had been obvious she was fond of the krogan, almost like a proud parent; it had been equally obvious that, although his own krogan, Grunt held Shepard in very high esteem.

The turian heaved a sigh.

"Wait, did you hear that?" Shepard demanded, scrambling to her feet.

"Shepard," Garrus began, but his voice cut off. "… _spirits_ …"

Shepard let of a laugh that was part hysterics part triumph as she ran forward.

Out of the maw stumbled a slimy, gut-covered heap of kroganity. His steps faltered, he bled from several deep gashes, he was utterly filthy…but Urdnot Grunt was alive.

Shepard's hug (she would deny that was what it was) seemed to be Grunt's cue to collapse against her. Shepard yelped, struggling under his weight, but it was too obvious that she didn't care. He was _alive_.

"Anybody…got anything to eat?" Grunt slurred, patting Shepard's back clumsily.

"Now I _know_ you're okay," Shepard laughed, though the sound had a watery quality to it. She and Garrus helped Grunt lurch to the shuttle. Pushing the krogan to sit down in the doorway, Shepard opened her medkit, took a knee in front of him, dumped water from her canteen onto a gauze pad and began cleaning Grunt's face of slime and viscera.

"Hey, Shepard, stop it…" Grunt protested feebly, trying and failing to get out of the reach of improvised washcloth and feminine fussing. "…knock it off."

"Ration bars have enough protein in them. You don't need the Rachni guts as well," she answered calmly.

Just like a mom, Vega thought, noticing that his wasn't the only indulgent smile.

"But…but the guts make me look _cool_ ," Grunt protested. The protest might have been for Shepard's peace of mind.

"Scars do, too. Keep the scars, lose the guts. Here, have a ration bar." Shepard broke it open with her teeth, peeled the foil back and handed it over before continuing to clean and dress the krogan's wounds as best she could.

No one pointed out it would be better to wait a few minutes and do it properly aboard the _Normandy_ , in the medbay.

Grunt wolfed down the ration bar in a few brief bites. "Got another one?" he asked plaintively, blue eyes hopeful. If he'd had humanoid lips, he would have been pouting.

Shepard grinned, produced another bar, opened it, and handed it over. This one disappeared even more quickly and was met by silence and more puppy eyes.

"Hey, here you go, man," Vega said, fishing out one of his and passing it to Shepard.

Shepard wiped down Grunt's hands, took the bars, and then popped their packaging. "Look at you—a big damn hero." Her eyes remained fixed as the krogan wolfed down the bars, as if she took the simple state of being that was ' _very hungry_ 'and the remedying of it as proof positive that the krogan was—more or less—okay, however he looked. "Come on, let's pour you into the shuttle. I think Cortez has a hose for spraying down the Kodiak somewhere. It'll be like a shower." She shouldered the krogan's weight awkwardly. Vega immediately moved to help her shift him the rest of the way into the shuttle.

"Cortez! Let's get the hell out of here!" Shepard called, pounding on the door to reinforce the statement.

"Sounds good," Grunt mumbled around the ration bar he'd finally taken the time to chew. "These things smell bad." He picked off a piece of guts Shepard had missed and looked confused about where to throw it. Then, with a huff, several wary flicks of eyes, he flicked it against Garrus' breastplate.

"Ha ha," the turian answered philosophically, picking the gobbet off and wiping it on Shepard's shoulder guard.

"Ha ha," Shepard repeated, but left the goo where it was.

Probably safest.

"More?" Grunt asked, casting as look at the foil wrappers around him.

"Ask and you shall receive," Vega responded, pulling out his other ration bar.

"Thanks."

"Cortez, you've got a hose for scrubbing off the Kodiak, right?" Shepard asked as Grunt chewed the protein bar slowly.

"By a strange coincidence I do, Captain. It'd be better to bring the Normandy down and sluice down the deck while we're at it, though. Less mess, less fuss. All that water's gotta go somewhere."


	241. Talismans

Bakara sighed as the door to her new temporary quarters closed.

It had not taken long for Shepard to decide there could not be peace and tranquility on her ship—two things the soldier liked when she wasn't in the field—she had quite a few male krogan showing off, or trying to, for the female. A female, moreover, who might run out of patience for said posturing and understandably. With the males trying to catch glimpses of her, the males trying to get her attention by posturing, the risk became high of Wrex causing problems by taking offense at all this attention from lesser males, which would lead to krogan brawls and probably in the last places Shepard might want them.

Moreover, the added attention was annoying to Dr. Chakwas and interrupted Dr. Solus whom Shepard truly believed would follow through with his threat to shoot the next indiscrete krogan no matter how 'helpful' that krogan wanted to be.

So Shepard had gathered a few necessaries—during which time the aforementioned threat took place—and moved Bakara up to what she called 'the Loft' while herself joining her fellow crewmen in the crew quarters.

It was gracious of her and generous, too. Too much so for Bakara to argue that she supported Dr. Solus and would even drag the body out of the medbay and leave it there as a warning to others. And she could handle Wrex.

It was good to see that Shepard was well kept. The quarters were spacious, with large tanks of water, the lights within turned to a deep, soft blue. A workspace, chaotic with datapads and styluses, with a mug of a cold, fragrant beverage…and a photograph.

Bakara picked it up. For a moment it was blank, as if Shepard had locked it out but a moment later, as if the on/off was just slow (and from the damage to the corners of the frame that was likely the truth) the black gave way to the image of a human male.

So, Shepard had a mate. Was he dead, killed by Reapers? Was he hurt—but how could he be if Dr. Chakwas wasn't looking after him? He was definitely not among the crew. She hadn't detected any close comingling of scent on Shepard. Bakara was no expert on human good looks and, in the end, it didn't matter. He was good-looking enough for Shepard.

She set the picture carefully back on the desk and flinched at a loud knock.

"Ms. Eve?" the voice was small and piping.

"Yes?"

The door opened, revealing one of Shepard's shipside crewmen—crew-women—carrying a pile of cloth in her arms. "Fresh sheets. I won't be a minute." With that the girl bustled in, toed the frosted door that separated Shepard's office from her private space open, and stepped down into the room.

The room was neat and full of interesting things. Bakara did not miss that the soldier worked rapidly, as if eager to get out of the room, wasting no time, taking no notice of anything that did not concern her. Once the bed was made, the girl bundled the sheets into her arms, snagged the coffee mug off the desk—all the while looking without seeing—and exited the room.

Bakara found herself smiling as she walked over to the tanks and ran her fingers along the smooth, cool glass. She recognized someone who did not wish to impose on Shepard's privacy, neither by her presence nor by indulging curiosity after Shepard's belongings. She was sure that this little crew-woman—crewling almost, she looked so young—made great efforts to perform her offices when and only when Shepard was not in her room and not likely to come back to find the place in the midst of being cleaned.

Bakara picked up the thresher leather bag from where it lay on a low table before an elbow-like line of couches. It had the feel of something Shepard didn't carry with her and retained the original contents: a tiny nub of the root used in the Rite that established a male's coming of age—Wrex had told her that Shepard had presided Grunt's Rite as the whelp's battlemaster and covered the both of them in glory; a single pebble from Tuchanka's ruined surface; and two drops of blood on the underside of the flap, little more than that afforded by a pricked finger—one was Shepard's, the other would be Wrex's.

Those were what she expected, and she was pleased to find—by feel, because looking would be incredibly rude—that Shepard had been informed what the bag was: a chronicle of her journey. Something which held her victories and defeats, memories of friends and enemies, something that would be ceremonially burned upon her death. Most krogan didn't carry such things any longer, merely giving them into the keeping of their Shaman and hoping word of their death would get back to Tuchanka so this final rite could be performed.

Bakara put the bag down, considering what it represented both to the krogan as a people and what it indicated about Shepard. Wrex had not said so plainly, but Bakara felt certain that if there was precedence for adopting an alien into a krogan clan, Wrex would have adopted Shepard when he presented her with this token.

Adopting an alien. It would be a new thought, and the krogan could use new thoughts, particularly if Shepard succeeded in ensuring the Genophage was cured. It would set precedent, show that the galaxy wasn't really 'krogan vs. everyone else.'

But more than that, it would be the greatest thing Wrex could do for this friend of his, the kindest thing for this person he so esteemed, the most generous thing for someone he respected—because Shepard had no clan of her own. She had the members of this crew or her Alliance. For a krogan, such things were no substitute for having a place where one belonged.


	242. Creature

Palmer felt the cold sweat on her skin beginning to trickle in rivulets, making her clothes stick uncomfortably. She'd been uneasy when Shepard announced they had an unorthodox passenger. With many apologies, she'd temporarily restricted access to the cargo bay—and if one walked past the bay of windows overlooking the cargo bay one would immediately see why.

It was huge and carapace-covered, supposed to be extinct with too many arms and unnerving eyes.

On the other hand, it huddled in the mat-covered corner of the cargo bay, so much so that Palmer began to feel a touch of pity for it. She'd seen abused dogs act like that at the shelter she'd worked for during summers while she was in high school. From the way Shepard spoke, the situations were not dissimilar.

Which was why they had a Rachni Queen onboard the Normandy and would have her until Shepard could arrange a handoff of sorts.

Frankly, Palmer didn't want to go to sleep when her shift was over for fear of waking up to little nasty spider-bugs crawling everywhere before trying to eat the crew alive. She shuddered, but continued her stoic walk.

"Need a hand?" Cortez called as soon as she entered the cargo bay.

"Nah…I'm good." It wasn't as though this thing's advocate wasn't there. In fact, Shepard seemed to be hard at work over a datapad, sitting on a couple of crates she'd moved for that purpose near the Queen.

The whole cargo bay smelled like Rachni, which was almost impossible to describe. It wasn't anything she could call 'buggy' and she didn't know if spiders had a smell (she didn't _want_ to know if spiders had a smell, because they'd have to be huge to determine what it was), but Rachni definitely had a smell.

"Palmer," Shepard looked up. "I appreciate it."

Well, when the Captain said 'hey Palmer, grab those steaks you've been saving for a special occasion, I'll buy you a fresh round later,' you rustled up the steaks and brought them down to the cargo bay as ordered.

She didn't mind losing the 'save them for a rainy day' steaks. She did mind having to get near the Rachni because it just…it was…well. It looked to her like every monster that ever came out of her older brothers' favorite kind of horror flick.

And Shepard was keeping it in the cargo bay.

" _Bon apatite_ …" Palmer announced, hoisting a smile onto her face to conceal her unease.

"It's fine, Palmer." Shepard hopped down from the crates and took the big tray, wrinkling her nose at the odor of raw meat. For a split second she looked mildly nauseated, but Shepard wiped that off her face as quickly as Palmer had hoisted on her smile.

Shepard's willingness to carry the tray over to the Queen saved Palmer from having to get any closer to the thing. Regardless, the Queen looked at her with all those weird eyes—which made Palmer tense up in spite of herself—and warbled something which she could only assume meant 'thank you.'

Palmer raised a hand in a neutral kind of wave, unsure whether to answer that or not.

"We've got her on starvation treatment," Shepard said as she walked Palmer back to the elevator, "so she's going to be eating every few hours."

Which meant the precise weight of meat needed was Dr. Chakwas' best guess as to what would be enough but not too much.

"Yes ma'am." Palmer glanced back at the Rachni, who was eating quickly.

"You don't have to get close to her," Shepard said simply. "I'll handle it."

Palmer frowned. "If I may…?"

Shepard nodded.

"…is she really…safe?"

"She's not going to hurt anyone on this ship," Shepard said reassuringly, as though she really did understand the concern even if she didn't share it. "She'd lose more than she gained if she did. And honestly…" Shepard glanced back at the Queen.

A chill ran up Palmer's sweaty skin. "Ma'am?"

Shepard shook herself. "All creatures feel pain and fear. She's had more than even a dumb animal should have to deal with. It's only for a few days, Palmer."

Palmer nodded. Shepard looked so troubled that it took a real effort not to ask what she meant by that 'pain and fear' comment. She suspected she really didn't want to know.

By the time she got back to the mess deck—which smelled strongly of krogan, who had hearty appetites—she found herself unsure what to think. The krogan weren't happy about the Queen in the cargo bay; they felt more ire towards the thing than the humans felt. Most of the humans were simply afraid.

But Shepard wasn't, and Palmer wondered what kind of life experience it took for one single human to be so singularly unperturbed by the Rachni-monster-thing.

It was as she began cutting meat out of its cryo-wrap and plopping it onto one of the big baking sheets that she came to a conclusion. Shepard didn't _see_ a Rachni-monster-thing. From what she'd gathered, Shepard had met this thing twice and both of them in bad (for the Queen) circumstances. Everyone she'd ever known, before joining the Normandy's crew, liked to talk about how Shepard was this kind of super soldier, a killing machine in the best possible way.

But no one had ever said a word about how compassionate Shepard was—something her crew saw quite often. Maybe that was it, Palmer thought as she put the meat into the refrigeration unit. Shepard didn't see a Rachni-monster-thing. She saw something that had suffered—maybe was still suffering.

Palmer bit her lip, thinking back to those pet shelter days. She'd always hated the people responsible for those creatures' conditions. She'd felt nothing but pity for those creatures.

She made a mental note, as she set the timer that would tell her when it was time to take the next load down to the Queen, to carry the tray all the way herself.


	243. Time and Space

It seemed to kind of defeat the purpose of being a Spectre to plaster his name and face all over the Extranet and every available vidscreen in what seemed like the whole galaxy. In fact, Alenko began to feel that the target on his back was getting bigger by the second.

Fortunately, the really ceremonial stuff was over and Udina hadn't been mistaken: the Citadel's upper crust was looking for reasons to throw parties, take their mind off the war. So they had.

Well, he was sure a lot of people wanted to take their minds off the war, but unless he was much mistaken Shepard and her crew weren't eating cake and drinking champagne. So, in an effort to appear polite, he had a piece of cake and a glass of champagne on her behalf. She hadn't got an induction party: she'd gotten a swift kick and double-time.

Part of him wished he had something more constructive to do. Although ostensibly the guest of honor, or at least the reason for the party, he was left mostly to his own devices after being initially swarmed by wishers—well and otherwise.

His omnitool twinkled, signaling an incoming message. The message turned out to be from Shepard: _Hey. Sorry I'm not there in person. EDI recorded your induction for me, though. I'm watching it now._

Alenko felt caught between asking who EDI was (and knowing Shepard wouldn't answer, since the question pertained to a crewman and was posed by a non-crewman), 'yeah?' and 'did I look nervous?', so he didn't compromise and squashed the two responses she might answer together.

 _Well, if anyone was hoping for a stabilizing element, I think they got it. You look very composed. Not at all like you're about to be sick._

That was good. He'd felt like he was going to be…and the knot of tension in his left temple he was trying so hard to ignore suggested he hadn't been successful. His medication might hold off the worst until he could get home. Between the nerves and the painful array of reporters' lights, he would be surprised if he was good for much tomorrow.

That was tomorrow's problem, though.

Alenko found a quiet corner and retreated into it, the better to attend to a conversation that really mattered. The big question was what it always was: where was she, and was she okay?

 _En route to the Citadel, but we're not staying long. Probably won't be able to drop in. Everyone you know is fine._

A spasm of disappointment accompanied those words. He'd been hoping to pilfer her from whatever she used to fill up her off-duty hours to do…something. They'd finished _Talons and Tomahawks_ —which was reasonably interesting, but not something he would watch on his own—and she had jokingly suggested he pick the next round of binge-television.

The problem was, everything he could think of to binge watch made him feel like a nerd. Then again…Shepard knew that about him. That, under the Alliance armor and ignoring the biotics, he was a nerd at heart.

He reread the third line. _Everyone you know is fine_. So someone he didn't wasn't?

"Everything alright?"

At hearing his own thoughts spoken aloud by someone else, Alenko looked up abruptly to find Martin Burns regarding him affably. It had come as something of a surprise for him to discover all those months ago who replaced Udina as the human ambassador. "Fine—just a friend who can't be here saying hey." He hoped Martin wouldn't investigate too closely.

Martin nodded understandingly. "Just wanted to make sure you didn't feel dropped for not being new and shiny enough."

Alenko shrugged, glancing at the elite and wondering whether any Spectres were seeded in the group. If so, they weren't giving the impression of being any happier about a human in their ranks than they were when Shepard got in. "Thanks."

Martin nodded, then withdrew.

As soon as Alenko could, he looked back to his omnitool.

 _You know, I can hear you worrying across the lightyears. Don't. A couple people are a little banged up, but they'll survive…and one of them is overjoyed about the will-be-scars._

Again, Alenko had to squash his curiosity, although he made a mental note to remember this comment in future. The next time he saw her, he'd ask about it.

 _Starting duties tomorrow?_

That was the hope. However, it seemed to Alenko that Udina didn't really have an assignment for him, past acting like a large, impressive shadow. If he was supposed to spend this war shadowing the human ambassador, Alenko suspected he'd made a false move in his career. He hadn't signed up to babysit Donnel Udina. No way.

 _That doesn't sound hopeful at all. Hang in there, Alenko. Either you'll get thrown in the shit or the shit will get thrown in your direction. Regardless, you'll end up in it, sooner or later._

Alenko found himself grinning at what ought to have been an extremely fatalistic remark. Maybe it was just because it came from Shepard, who would know about finding herself in the shit, expectedly and unexpectedly. More than finding herself in it, she usually found ways to get herself and her crew out of it alright.

The next words came easily: I miss you.

The lag between his remark and Shepard's answer was predictable. Then it stretched. Just when he thought he might have said something wrong, his omnitool twinkled.

 _Sorry. I'm running a nursery and the kids wanted to act up. I think they're settled down, though. Someone had old Wrestling Federation vids, so I plugged them into those. I'm starting to see why you never find more than a few krogan on any given spaceship._

He wanted to ask…but knew better. Still, the idea of a bunch of young krogan raptly tuned into Wrestling Federation vids was hilarious.

He wished he was there, but didn't say so. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what Shepard's opinion was.


	244. Song

Author's Note: I wanted to do this chapter since experimenting with the Queen's POV, but something Mai-DanishGirl wrote inspired the chapter to take this shape. Thanks so much!

-J-

The Queen sang at night, or the time designated 'night,' partly for consolation, partly as a reprieve from the loneliness of being among so many isolated, independent Ones-Who-Speak-For-Themselves, mostly to break up the alien sounds of the ship when it was so quiet.

It took a few nights before anyone really noticed it in any concrete fashion, and only after the krogan were dropped off on the Citadel—Grunt for treatment, his men for R&R under the semi-watchful eye of a harassed Commander Bailey.

Even then, it wasn't something one discussed over breakfast, as it existed in the fashion of a dream: real enough while asleep, but once one was awake…how could it exist? How could it be anything but the melancholia and loss they all felt in the dark hours, when sleep was close?

But it did exist, a soft harmonic that touched the sleeping mind without waking the sleepers, permeating the Normandy—except for the Loft, with its careful insulation against sound, and except in the mind of EDI, possibly the most impenetrable, unreachable, of the sapients aboard the Normandy.

Shepard heard it, as she struggled through the Mindoiran woods, heard it until she found herself chasing, not a little boy, but a little girl with her own eyes, brown ponytail bouncing above a lavender gingham dress.

Garrus heard it, felt the weight of uncertainty: Solana and his father got off Palaven, but he'd heard nothing more, nothing except that Solana's leg was broken during the evacuation. Where they were going, he didn't know, but he followed the song through the corridors of dreams as if it might lead him to them.

Dr. Chakwas, Donnelly and Daniels all heard it, trapped inside Collector tubes, waiting for the nanites to attack and render them down to grey gloop, waiting to be turned into part of a Reaper. But the song was there, and couldn't possibly be, a sorrow and weariness that opened the pods _because_ it didn't belong there. The grey emptiness, the sense of loss, was far preferable to nightmares that were memories.

Liara heard the song, but it belonged to her mother. Benezia cradled her against a warm shoulder as all around her color wept like tears of paint across a blank canvas. It was a sad song, but comforting to know the singer could feel with such complexity, and communicate that complexity to others.

The song kept Javik awake—not that he would admit to hearing it. He considered himself inured against losses, proof against sentiment. But when his mind slackened, when his grip on consciousness grew weak, he understood the song far better than he would have liked to admit, because he sensed the hopeless note that maybe, in spite of appearances, maybe _nothing_ was really going to change. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Wrex dreamed of Noveria, of krogan trapped in corridors of ice, frozen but alive, unreachable no matter how hard he tried. He couldn't reach them. Couldn't save them. And there was no one else to even try.

Joker waltzed with EDI to a tune he couldn't hear, but which buzzed in his bones. She didn't see him, didn't interact with him beyond walking him through the steps to the somber music. There but not, it left him feeling cold and empty.

Vega looked over a ruined Earth, wondering where in all the rubble those few people he had to care about lay, and wondering whether he could find their bodies…or if he'd already put them down.

Adams sat in a dark room on the edge of his bed, regarding a box with a ring in it. But the finger the ring belonged to was dead, gone, killed so casually, so off-handedly. His heart felt empty, and he contemplated the void left by one drowsy driver.

Palmer dreamt of sad dogs, lonely dogs, unhappy dogs, frightened dogs, their whimpers and snuffles combining into a tune to make the very stones weep. It frustrated her that she couldn't seem to find them, as she walked down endless lengths of kennel. She could hear them, but they weren't _there_.

When Bakara finally told Shepard she would like to return to the medbay—now that the young krogan were gone—she heard the song too…and marveled at it.

She heard it first during her evening meditations, during the emptying of her mind. It wasn't a sound, and yet it was certainly something she _heard_. It was clearly a mother's lament for her dead, degraded children. The song of a woman who saw her children live and grow, only so that they could fight and die for causes that weren't worth it. Acid tears etched cheeks that weren't Bakara's own—surely, surely, _surely_ there must be more than this!

Strange to think such a song came from the krogan's ancient enemy. But Bakara was a shaman of the female clan. She held krogan history and ways in trust for the day when krogan children would live again. She understood that times changed, and even the lines between enemies and friends might also change.

On the third night, Bakara slipped down to the cargo bay where the Rachni Queen Shepard had rescued stayed. On the floor were blue lines of tape, which Shepard had put down for the benefit of the crew—the demarcation being 'the Queen's space.' Bakara knelt on the cargo-bay side of the tape, regarding the suddenly watchful insectoid.

Then she began to sing, not her usual evening devotions, but the Mothers' Hymns, the sad and the joyous, the aching and the gentle, composing her mind to soft flexibility. She watched the Queen listen, then listened as the Queen began to sing.

It was a strange sort of communion, a conversation without words, and the longer Bakara remained, the more aware she was of a soft whisper, not of speech but of ideas that weren't her own, skittish little things that sidled up against her open mind to impart meaning.


	245. Alliances

Trigger warning: brief discussion of the situation the Rachni Queen was rescued from.

-J-

Shepard regarded Hackett over the terminal, noting how much his wrinkles had deepened, the way his eyes seemed to have sunken. There was a hard, predatory look to him she had never seen there before, but which she knew well enough. She'd worn it quite often over the past few years.

" _I'm still a little dubious about this 'alliance' of yours, Shepard,_ " he finally said heavily.

Shepard pushed down the grimace, because Hackett made little half-hearted air quotes at her. Part of her was glad to be able to move the Queen—the Mother, Liara and surprisingly Eve said she called herself—off the Normandy. It was Eve who had mentioned, discreetly and only because as commanding officer Shepard had a right to know, that the morose melancholia, the sense of grey grief and weariness that had been dragging on the crew originated from the Mother's song.

 _One plucks the strings, and the others respond._

 _She is weak to urging._

Well, someone once said Sleep and Death lay side by side. This receptivity to the Mother's songs while in a somnolent state suggested some truth to those words.

However, she recognized the Mother as a sentient being, capable of complex communication and emotions. She didn't look remotely humanoid…but neither did elcor or hanar. It was just a different kind of alien.

"Sir?"

Hackett gave her a weary look. " _Don't play dumb with me, Shepard,_ " he sighed, rubbing his eyes. " _You cut a deal with her on Noveria_ —"

"And she honored it."

" _And now we find out she's been supplying the Reapers—_ " Hackett broke off.

Shepard went pale. She _felt_ the blood rush away from her face, felt her features tighten, felt the ugly look stamp itself on her expression. "I'm going to pretend you don't mean that the way it came out, _sir_ ," she said quietly, though her glower remained firmly in place. "She didn't _choose_ to cross us. If she was human, or asari, or any of the other major galactic players, you'd be all sympathy for her, and full-on rage against her tormentors."

Hackett took a slow breath and let it out heavily. " _We got burned, Shepard_." 

"Do you want to say that to a rape victim, Admiral?" She let the ugly suggestion fly like a slug from her rifle. She wasn't going to argue the lack of a partner in this forced reproduction. After all, she'd been prepared to ensure that Ronald Taylor's stint in prison was every bit as bad as his crew's stint on Aeia. He was lucky he'd taken the long jump. She'd never bothered to ask if Thane had somehow manipulated the man into sparing Alliance taxpayers the cost of keeping his worthless ass.

She hadn't realized she was still so angry about all that.

"Someone rescued from the batarian slave pits, maybe?" she continued. "Yes, we have Rachni that the Reapers have tampered with. We also have batarians, krogan, and humans they've tampered with. More than that, we still haven't seen the numbers of sleeper agents my Prothean crewman tells me to expect."

Hackett sighed again, looking tired—perhaps too tired to argue philosophy with her. " _Perhaps I misspoke_."

He saw a bug. But Shepard knew the Mother to be capable of communication and rationale. "She mourns her lost children. She hates the Reapers. We're building alliances on that sort of thing with other people."

She could almost see it on his face: 'Shepard and her unconventional alliances.'

" _How can she be of assistance?_ "

"She says that if instructions can be communicated to her…" Shepard paused.

" _I've got a-a translator who's willing to try._ "

"If instructions can be communicated, she can direct her children. You said anyone who can hold a hammer, and I think that's where the Mother—excuse me, the Rachni Queen's—strength will lie. In building."

" _The Mother?_ " Hackett repeated, arching his eyebrows.

"It's what she calls herself. To distinguish from other Queens, if there were other Queens." Shepard shook her head. Communication, even with Liara facilitating—something the asari found exhausting—was fraught with cultural differences that sometimes made simple concepts impossible to discuss coherently.

This seemed to shake Hackett's doubts, though Shepard doubted any of them were allayed. " _I see. Continue._ "

"A Rachni Queen can establish a colony in under a week. She may need more time: we've done what we can, but Rachni don't exactly fall under xenomedicine." Shepard ran a hand through her hair. "Dr. Chakwas _thinks_ we've done all we can."

The Mother indicated she did feel better, now, after several days of rest and proper food—felt better, and was very grateful.

Shepard couldn't help thinking that _anything_ was better than the hellhole they pulled her out of, though she refused to say so out loud. It would be callous.

" _Well, I suppose six hands are better than none,_ " Hackett finally said. " _I hope your second chance pays off this time. That's all._ "

"Keep the Reapers off her and I think it will."

Hackett suddenly laughed, a tired sound not devoid of humor. " _You know. I always thought your ability to forge alliances was a little unorthodox, but it was effective and unpredictable. Now, I find myself wondering who's next on your list._ "

"I'll worry about that once the krogan are on board."

Ideally, the quarians.

Part of her wondered how the Geth—the actual Geth, not the Heretic subset—felt about all this. Part of her was even worried: Legion made it clear that the Geth on the whole didn't want anything to do with the Reapers. Maybe some little part of her half expected Legion to call her…but she knew better. It was why she wasn't surprised to hear nothing: he would have rejoined the Consensus, and the entity she recognized as Legion would no longer exist.

" _How's that going?_ "

If the way Wrex whined, moaned, and bellyached was any indicator…very well indeed. He'd spent an afternoon with Mordin, and hadn't been his usual, boisterous, borderline violent self since.


	246. Huddle

"Here're the coordinates you gave me, sir," the technician declared.

Tarquin Victus, surrounded by his now-junior officers and NCOs, studied the hologram of the terrain, neatly labeled 'Kelphic Valley.' Then he glanced at the ring of grim faces. He hadn't had too much trouble about his sudden promotion and this kind of hush-hush mission, but he _did_ have the feeling that he had a _very_ short window of time to win these people's trust before taking them into combat.

"Now, look at this." Two sets of dots appeared on the map, one yellow, one blue.

"Okay." Tarquin tried to quell his nerves, hoping he didn't look as sick as he felt. "Locals?" He half-hoped they were. Local krogan were far less of a problem than any of the other troublous elements pinging around the galaxy just now.

The technician snorted. "No. These? These represent humans." He pointed at several clusters of yellow dots. "These? These are all Reapers." These dots were blue, and seemed to be fewer in number, but scattered more broadly than the yellow dots.

If he knew anything about Reapers, his impressions were that they wouldn't stay 'few' for long. They would either bring in or convert more forces. He didn't like the idea of Reaper-krogan. Krogan were supposed to be ridiculously tough on their own. They didn't _need_ to be Reaper-augmented to be a problem.

Tarquin shuddered inwardly. Besides…the Reapers were only supposed to be sniffing around. He hadn't heard a word of an actual fighting presence. Well, heard about it or not, he could see it right here on the map. Like the Reapers weren't sure whether they wanted to bother with Tuchanka's inhabitants or not. Maybe they weren't sure the krogan were advanced enough to harvest? Wasn't that their MO? Harvesting all advanced lifeforms?

"I see. These humans. Can you get me a visual?" It would be a real mess if they turned out to be Alliance, because no one outside the Hierarchy was supposed to know about the bomb. If that got out…what a mess!

"Scout sweep was sure to get a look," the technician answered grimly, cueing a still-frame shot of several humanoid figures in black and white armor, clustered around something. Several vehicles waited in the background.

Serious materiel, Tarquin thought grimly.

"I isolated this," the technician indicated the device on the nearest vehicle. Under his tapping fingers, the insignia became a simple picture, which was abruptly joined by a label of 'match' and a panel of information obligingly popped up. "Flagged as Cerberus—the kind of people you shoot on sight."

Another image showed something that made Tarquin's stomach drop: it looked like the setup of an excavation site, only Cerberus hadn't started digging, yet. They were still, to all appearances, just getting their equipment into place.

It didn't look as though the Reapers had discovered Cerberus' presence. Or maybe they just didn't care.

…what could the Reapers do with that bomb? What _would_ the Reapers do with that bomb? Blast the krogan back to the Stone Age and let them re-evolve? Or just blast them into oblivion and call it a good day's work? And he was supposed to prevent that?

Suddenly, there were too many foreigners on Tuchanka's surface for his liking.

"More than that, there's a cannon planetside that Cerberus has seized, fortified, and refurbished. If they think there's something worth shooting at, it could be a problem," the technician continued, cueing another still-frame, this time of an antiquated tower with a massive gun on it.

Tarquin nodded. "Then we'll take down the cannon, first." It would be a good dry run, especially if Cerberus still had to dig the bomb up. It seemed a sound plan to him to let them get some of the hard work out of the way, take down a major strategic problem-in-the-making, and then swoop in to clean them out. It would give him an opportunity to interact with his men in the field, let them see he wasn't just a name, let them see he really was capable of leading.

Maybe…maybe, if they pulled off this first mission, _he_ would start to believe himself capable of handling the next one. Every time he thought about diffusing this bomb, he couldn't help but remember every instance of butterfingers he'd ever had. The list was long enough to leave him distinctly uneasy, but wishing his father had simply trusted the Spectre he was with wouldn't achieve anything.

He weighed to himself the risks of letting Cerberus get on with the excavation. "About how long before they could dig a hole, oh, half a kilometer deep and about that wide?" he asked, to buy himself time in which to think.

The technician shrugged, talons tapping on the pedestal of the display. "Depends on how many people they have, and how motivated they are. A few hours at the very least. A couple days at most."

Unable to stall any longer, Tarquin turned to his favorite NCO. "Do you think it advisable to take down the cannon first, and then worry about this bomb?"

She considered, and then tipped her head. "We don't want them shooting that thing at us now, do we? I'd say if we have the time, then let's do it—before the krogan figure out this cannon's suddenly working and decide they want to play with it."

That was his thought, too: if the krogan _had_ a working cannon, he couldn't imagine them _not_ wanting to mess with it. "Well, then that's where we'll start. We'll take down this gun tower, then fly to the next engagement zone and take it from there." His guts said caution was best. Part of him said to break the men up, shuttle in. Part of him said stick together. "Brief the men." This time, his tone held more conviction, less uncertainty. "We'll begin the operation in half an hour."

As she exited, his favorite NCO gave him an approving nod and a wink.


	247. Nerves

Corporal Siu shifted nervously as Commander Sheffler got to his feet. The man was a tough-looking CO, a stark contrast to his second, Lieutenant Van Akan. Sheffler was strongly built, bulky, scarred with a shaved scalp (probably so the burns wouldn't be more noticeable by disfiguring a head of hair); Lt. Van (who preferred this to his full surname) was slender with neat blonde hair and fair eyes, more like a scholar or some civilian than the picture of military.

Then again, Siu knew it hypocritical to suggest anyone didn't meet the military ideal—him being skinny, nervous and eighteen.

"Right!" Sheffler barked to his unit, banging his hands together once to get his unit's attention. Talking died down, leaving a tense silence. Siu wasn't sure whether it was nervousness about hitting dirt or nervousness at hitting dirt with Commander Sheffler—the sole survivor of the Akuze Massacre.

The body of evidence was that Akuze was a fluke, an unforeseen thing that _someone_ had to be responsible for. That someone happened to be Sheffler. It was the kind of reputation no one could get away from, but Siu actually felt confidence: Sheffler presented a calm, reassuring face to his men, a steady guiding hand for all the nervous eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds stuffed into this overcrowded transport.

"Those Cerberus loonies are at it again," Sheffler declared, "this time on Benning. Strike squads have infiltrated the major cities and are abducting the citizens."

Stirs of disquiet and discontent ran through the troops. All Siu knew about Cerberus was that military icon Commander—now Captain—Shepard had worked with them for a while. The whole story was garbled, but if the Alliance reinstated and promoted her, she couldn't have been involved with anything too bad. Now, Cerberus was the bad guy. That was as much as he knew about any of it.

"We're going to—yes?" Sheffler paused to acknowledge a raised hand.

"Why?" someone in the back asked.

Van leaned over and whispered something to Sheffler who nodded.

Probably something along the line of 'do they need a reason?'

"We don't know," Sheffler answered with a shake of his head. "We just know that they're doing it. We're heading into the major cities to put a stop to this crap. If we can _answer_ why, great."

Anyone who listened to Sheffler on the subject of Cerberus for five minutes knew that he bore and nursed a deep-seated grudge. He didn't rage at them, but there was always an imprecation of some kind when he spoke of them, little outgassings of hatred.

"The Alliance sent a recon team in—Cerberus responded by targeting the civilian and public facilities. So welcome to your first warzone." About a third of the unit had seen combat before, mostly before the beginning of the war. The rest were fresh off the farm, so to speak, like Siu himself. "Your tactical units have been assigned so that each one has at least one veteran in it. Stay close to them and listen to what they tell you."

Siu's group belonged to a grizzled-looking woman named Sango; with that big gun, she looked fully able to cut a man in half with the ammo. She also carried a cigarette behind her ear, but no one ever saw her smoke. She might even be pretty if she hadn't looked so much tougher than Siu felt.

"Supposedly, Cerberus's _leadership_ is denying responsibility and condemning the action." He said leadership like it tasted bad.

"Which is bollocks," Van noted with distaste when Sheffler paused. "If it wears their colors, you shoot it. No questions, no negotiations. Intel is such that they are unable to negotiate."

Siu nodded. Everyone had heard the rumors about Cerberus' troopers, how husk-like they looked and, while they could talk, they weren't likely to say much of interest to someone who wasn't one of their own. They said what Cerberus wanted them to say. Full stop.

"Everyone has a medical pack. Save those you can, but top priority is and has to be pushing Cerberus out. I know that will be hard for most of you, but bear in mind that the civilian losses will be so much heavier if we don't act with expediency," Sheffler continued.

Siu thought he knew what that meant: the longer Cerberus had a foothold the more civilians could get hurt; the more civilians they stopped to help, the longer Cerberus maintained a foothold. He'd heard stories of war from his father and his grandfather, how civilians were popular ways to slow down a counterassault. He shivered inwardly. It seemed he was about to see it.

"You wanna take the safety off that rifle?" their unit boss asked Franklin in an undertone.

Siu quickly and discreetly checked his.

Sheffler continued to give instructions about how the action was going to work. It was simple: stay in your groups, pan out, stay together, shoot Cerberus. Siu liked that plan: it was simple, far less likely to fall apart than something clever. Let Sheffler's unit handle clever. Siu was happy with point shoot.

Siu began to fidget as the pilot announced the two-minute warning.

"Relax," Sango declared. "It's just like the shooting range with the DIs screaming their lungs out at you."

He wished her aura of calm was as effective as Sheffler's.

"We've got a sheltered place to put down, but it's not going to stay sheltered once they figure out where we are. So get out of there as fast as you can," Sheffler concluded.

That was good. Siu had vids in his head of brave men racing off troop transports only to be mowed down by entrenched enemies. Why? Why had he watched all those war vids with his father and grandfather? _Why_?

Easy: he never expected to be in one, himself.

His father and grandfather fought in or offered supported for the First Contact War, respectively. They were on Earth when the Reapers hit.

Now, it was his turn to fight.


	248. Moxie

Sheffler hated urban assaults; he hated the sound of the words because they were always a mess. Dead civilians all over the place.

And he definitely didn't believe that Cerberus had lost control of their drones. Not with everything that had been done to them. It just didn't work in his mind, despite Cerberus constantly losing their grip on their projects. One would think, he grinned grimly, they'd have had a look at their own track record and figured out the pattern. The Illusive Man was _supposed_ to be a pretty smart guy.

The transport touched down and Sheffler was out the door and had a line on cover before his weight finished hitting the ground. If you could get off the shuttle alive, you were in a good position.

Sheffler was over the barrier and forward, freeing up the space for whichever of his men was behind him.

"Hey Sheff! This is starting to feel a little familiar!" Van shouted, his voice followed by the rattle of gunfire.

"Then you should know the drill!" Sheffler shouted back, popping up, picking his target and sending a volley of bullets into the Cerberus drone. The man—and he used the term loosely—jerked before falling.

The place smelled of duracrete dust and the dankness of rain that hadn't dried. The temperature made the place muggy, which made wearing armor a penance—but that was standard discomfort.

Screams from behind indicated something had hit some portion of his men. Sharp voices relayed to their unit leads the names of the dead. Others shouted that they were pinned. Some of that was just panic. Some of it was probably true.

"You're marines, dammit!" Sheffler bellowed. "So you _can do this_!"

It was hard being on point, because the distress came from the back where, predictably, the rawest, greenest of the recruits and volunteers were.

"Push forward!" a voice with the ring of authority barked. "It's just harassment fire!"

"Pretty damn accurate harassment fire!"

"Just push for—"

"Callahan's down!"

One of their handlers. Crap. But it sounded like only one unit was in real trouble…and he didn't know if that was because the others had snapped out of that first-engagement, mind-numbing fear before training (or instinct) took over or because they'd been hit and units had been lost.

He hated losing men. Especially in a situation like this.

"Keep moving, Sheff! I've got them—shit!" Van's assurance was broken down by a half-panicked shout, 'That guy's doing something funky! Drop him, drop him!'

"You've got a gun! _You_ drop him!" Van roared.

"Dammit," Sheffler growled, turning to see who he could see. He couldn't see anything useful.

"Someone push forward! I've got his!" the squeaky voice who accused some trooper of doing something 'funky' shouted.

"Are you _sure_?" Sheffler asked, having no desire to have his ass shot off.

"No, I'm winging it!" the voice snarled back.

Snarling was better than panicky.

-J-

Siu crouched behind his pitiful cover, biting his lip as he looked at the mangled remains of his unit leader. Sango had almost no head left, and her left shoulder was in little better condition.

As he watched her blood gushing onto the ground, the fear moved over for something…else. He peeped over the barrier again, watched the guy fiddling with something continue fussing with it. His own men provided him some cover, but whatever he was doing was technological and…

Siu's heart fell into his stomach. He dropped back behind the barricade as Van snarled, "You've got a gun! _You_ drop him!"

That was true, but there was no way to hit the turret—or the guy setting it up—with a single bullet. He was no deadeye. However…

Siu swallowed, the shouts and screams of his own team and the civilians elsewhere ringing in his ears. "Someone push forward! I've got his!" the words came out as if someone else spoke them. His omnitool flared as fingers, cold and feeling numb, danced across the interface.

"Are you _sure_?" Sheffler demanded from up ahead.

"No, I'm winging it!" Siu snapped back. "I just need a minute!"

"You've got about thirty seconds!"

"I'll buy you a few more, Siu!"

"Bilal, wait!"

"Stay put, I've got this!"

"Shit—whatever you're doing, hurry the hell up!"

Siu's breath came in pants. He had never been so aware of _time_.

"Move, move, move! There's cover if you can get to it!"

Siu popped over the barricade, vaguely aware that Bilal had given the Cerberus drones something else to shoot at and hadn't lasted long. He lay sprawled in the open space he'd been forced into, bleeding profusely. He wasn't moving.

The engineer almost had the turret open. Siu threw his tech mine at the engineer, the little object landing squarely on the base as he dropped to the ground.

His interface lit up and a new screams joined the riot of sound.

"That's _beautiful_!" someone yelled.

"Don't just stand there watching!" Siu heard himself yelling as he grabbed his rifle, took one quick look at the battlefield now that Cerberus' goons had their own turret firing on them, and scrambled to one side.

His route would pass Bilal's still form. It was irrational, he knew—

"Tech-head! I've got your covered!" Van's voice barked as if he already knew what was in Siu's mind.

Siu dropped to his belly, ascertained that Bilal really was dead before freeing his dog tags. He scrambled to the nearest cover, gained his feet and darted to the sound of Van's voice. It had been close.

His heart pounded in his chest, but now that he didn't feel pinned and vulnerable he felt better. He was still _vulnerable_ but at least he wasn't _pinned_. Without thinking, he stuffed Bilal's tags into his web gear.

"Good man," Van breathed from nearby as more turret fire opened up, eliciting a yelp and several colorful curses from Sheffler. "Come on, let's see you do that trick again. Sheff! Face stays on your head!"


	249. Unbelievable

Officer Gaius had not expected that the krogan's repeated and increasingly hostile demands that Captain Shepard be summoned immediately would bear any fruit. In fact, he expected Shepard to either call the krogan's bullshit or that she would come down to call it in person.

Shepard did, in fact, make an appearance, and probably set a speed record in doing so. She pulled herself out of the skycar looking grim, her eyes darting over the C-Sec officers, the krogan, and the burning wreck of his car—his _new_ car.

"Shepard!" the krogan stood up, grinning all over his flat features.

"We're very sorry to have disturbed you, Captain," Gaius announced, studying the human critically. She wasn't as bulky as he'd expected her to be. Then again, with all the stories around Captain Shepard, it wasn't surprising to expect a human built along the lines of a batarian. "But he was insisting."

"It's alright, officer," Shepard responded before giving her attention to the krogan. "Grunt." It was both a greeting and a demand for an accounting. "You're not in the hospital."

"Got bored," the krogan answered with a shrug.

"This I've got to hear," she breathed softly, glancing at the burning wreck of Gaius' _new_ car. "I'll vouch for him, officer. Whatever you need me to sign…" she waved a hand to say 'I'll sign it.' The krogan took the look she gave him as permission to begin his story.

Or, rather, a nonverbal order to do so. Right now. Don't leave anything out.

The krogan sighed, watching as the datapad changed hands, then he squirmed under her resolute gaze before answering. "I drank a bit, left the hospital, broke a few windows."

"You were in the hospital for a reason, Grunt."

"Yeah…didn't feel like sticking around. It smelled bad."

"Okay. Leaving against medical advice. You're an adult with redundant organs, I'll spot you that one. So why's C-Sec here?"

She wasn't interested in why the _new car_ was on fire? The Chief was _not_ going to be happy.

The krogan leered as though inviting Shepard to join a joke. "Guess they're mad about some broken windows."

Gaius sputtered at this, but said nothing as the krogan realized his joke had not found approval with Shepard, who drew back the stylus from the datapad. "Before I sign _anything_. Everyone _did_ walk away in one piece, right?"

"Sure, yeah, everybody's fine. Hospital's seen better days, though."

"Start with the windows."

The krogan sighed. "Couple of squadmates broke me out for my birthday. Tried lowering me down the side of the building on a rope."

Oh, spirits.

"Okay."

"…it didn't work out."

"Yes, I seem to see some fresh damage," Shepard responded dryly.

"Yeah. Also got some great pictures up on the Presidium, you know, on the Krogan Memorial."

Shepard immediately scanned the list of damages and seemed relieved at not finding the Krogan Memorial mentioned. Personally, Gaius could have lived with it being taken down.

"And that's when C-Sec showed up all pissed off…or maybe they were mad about the car being on fire," the krogan rubbed his chin, squinting as he tried to remember.

Gaius felt hismelf bristling at this calm nonchalance. It was his car. His _new_ car!

"Why was the car on fire?" Shepard asked, a faint trace of amusement playing about her mouth.

"Because threw my bottle of ryncol at it. Strong stuff—went up just like a bonfire. It was _great_." The krogan chuckled at this, savoring the memory.

Silence.

"…then the C-Sec guys jumped out."

He had to give the krogan one point for not saying 'bailed out,' because Gaius was aware that exiting the vehicle had been more like bailing than anything else.

"Then I figured if _they_ didn't want it anymore I should take it."

Shepard shook her head.

"We didn't get very far before they shut us down and sprayed us down. That riot foam tastes like shit. Didn't help much, though. Not with me, anyway."

"And why not?" Shepard asked, shaking her head.

"Cause _I_ was on fire. You know, from the car? Try to keep up, Shepard."

"I'm sorry. I don't know how I lost the point in all this lunacy. Do go on."

The krogan's smug remembrance turned to chastened compliance. "Caught up with me when I stopped for noodles. Got hungry."

"So where's your unit in all of this?" Shepard asked, looking around.

"First in, last out."

"Ah. That's alright, then."

'That's alright then?' How was who-knew-how-many krogan running all over the place alright?

It was at this point that Gaius felt sure he was having some strange dream or delusion. The Captain wiped the approval of the 'first in, last out' mentality off her face—had that been something she imprinted on the krogan?—the better to cross her arms and frown down at the krogan.

The krogan seemed to shrink in the face of motherly— _was_ it motherly?—displeasure. "Grunt. What do you say to the nice man for setting his car on fire?" Shepard asked firmly, indicating Gaius with one slender finger.

The krogan slouched, looking from Shepard to Gaius and back again. "Fine," he huffed sullenly. "I'm sorry for setting your car on fire."

That was one for the record books. There was no trace of sarcasm under the sullenness.

Shepard arched her eyebrows, and the krogan sighed, slouching even more. "…and I'll never do it again." The words came out almost indistinguishable.

"Thank you," she said to the krogan before turning to Gaius himself and handing over the datapad. "Thank you, officer, for contacting me."

Gaius heard himself speaking, but his brain seemed disconnected with his mouth. He had been apologized to by the krogan—under compulsion or not—who had not only led him on a merry chase around the Citadel but who had also set his _brand new_ car on fire.

He had also witnessed that same krogan squarely managed by one small human female.

No wonder she was saving the galaxy.


	250. In a Nutshell

Shepard knew something was wrong when the door to her office opened to reveal Adrien Victus. He looked as he usually did, but something in the air seemed coiled like a spring just waiting to pop loose. "What's the matter?" she asked as he turned from frowning at her to frown at the empty fish tanks.

She got the impression he wished there was more in the tanks than just his own reflection. "Several things. I'm afraid I'm not certain where to start."

"I keep that chair for a reason."

Victus nodded, but didn't sit down, or look away from the tank.

A sinking sensation settled over Shepard. "Okay, something's gone wrong."

When Victus spoke, he spoke very slowly indeed. "You could say that. Not long after the mission to Sur'Kesh, while on the Citadel, I had a meeting with certain of my personnel. It was as classified as anything can get. This meeting revolved around a mission that I required completion of. This morning my team contacted me: Cerberus was in their operational theater."

Shepard took a slow breath. "So Cerberus has bugs on the Citadel." She turned and opened a message on her terminal, typing quickly. "That's good to know. Where's your team operating?"

The silence before he answered told her plainly her casually slipped-in question had not tripped him up, that he was answering because she needed to know. "Tuchanka."

Shepard looked up from the note she meant to send to the Councilors and Ambassadors on the Citadel (and courtesy copy to C-Sec). "You've got a turian a black ops team on Tuchanka?"

Wrex was going to love this.

"And it gets worse. They cleared their first objective without complications. The last communique I got indicated the ship had crashed, unknown number of casualties, and rather than being pinned by Cerberus, they're being pinned by the Reapers."

"Wrex said there were a few," Shepard answered uneasily. Something in her trained military senses tingled, as if something in Victus' story didn't quite make sense, wasn't quite _right_. It was a sense she'd learned to rely on over the years.

"An advanced guard, but Reapers don't count like most people," Victus answered bitterly.

There was something he didn't want to tell her. "So why a black op on Tuchanka?"

Victus turned around, his eyes fixing on hers. For a long moment, there was silence then, slowly, as if he didn't like the answer he was giving, "I'm sorry, Captain. But that's classified."

Shepard got out of her chair, slowly so as not to give the impression of hostility. "Seriously? You're about to ask me to make a detour to rescue your guys—" He didn't deny it, so that must be it. "—and you throw 'that's classified' in my face?"

She had the satisfaction of a delicate wince from Victus. "It's vital that they be rescued. They _must_ complete their original mission. It's a matter of…galactic peace."

Shepard's sense of unease doubled. "I know I wear Alliance blue, but I am a card-carrying Spectre in good standing. We do handle galactic peace stuff most days."

"And that's why I'm bringing this to you, and not keeping it within my own military."

"If you want me to put my team's asses on the line, I'm going to need something a little better than half-in, half-out." Shepard crossed her arms.

Again, Victus looked uncomfortable. "Our Alliance is new, Captain. Imagine if our positions were reversed. Would you entrust me with something that might endanger your Alliance?"

Shepard sighed, running a hand through her hair. She needed to get it cut. "You know, Hackett lets me do pretty much whatever I want, as long as I'm following the directives of the Alliance while I'm doing the Spectre thing. But he does like to remind me every so often that I am not running a school bus. Or a taxi. Or a cruise line. Both Sparatus and Udina were very not-happy with me allowing you to base yourself on a frontline warship, VIP that you are. It's also been made _very_ clear to me that if anything happens to you, it's my ass. But here you are. Now, is there anything you want to tell me, in the interests of galactic peace?"

For a moment, she thought Victus was going to crack, to let the whole story come tumbling out. "When I was just a general, I could pass things up the chain of command," he answered, tone a little shaky. "I can't do that anymore: I'm all I've got."

The admission ought to have meant more than it did; Shepard knew what it cost for him to admit that he was, essentially, terrified of screwing up beyond the possibility of things getting fixed. "I feel for you, Primarch." She let the 'but' hang unspoken in the air.

Victus sighed, closed his eyes for a moment and seemed to steel himself. "The commanding officer's name is Tarquin Victus."

Shepard closed her eyes as well. "Please tell me he's your older brother." There was no point hoping. Life never gave her that kind of break.

"Would that make it better?"

"No, but if he's your son, it puts my ass in a bit of a sling, doesn't it? I play chicken with you, and you can get offended because I left your son to die because you wouldn't un-clam yourself. _Dammit_ , Victus!"

Victus suddenly laughed, but it was a pained sound. "I'm sorry…it's just…my wife says it that way, sometimes, in just the same tone."

Shepard sighed, shaking her head. "Let's get one thing perfectly clear, if this is how you want to do things: the minute my team sets foot on Tuchanka, the mission becomes ours. I will run it as _I_ see fit, and I won't have you interfering in any way. Is that understood?"

For a moment, Victus teetered on changing his mind, then nodded. "That's…reasonable."

Shepard punched the send button on the message before heading down to the galaxy map.


	251. Laugh

Councilor Irissa grimaced as she read the altercation report, with its Spectre expenditure paperwork pinned to the back. Glass windows, a new squad car, damages and destruction…and all so blatantly unnecessary. Part of her would have liked to send the bill straight back to Shepard, knowing as she did that this indulgence on behalf of a krogan was just a political stunt, Shepard's way of sending a message about that ridiculous 'alliance' she was trying to broker.

The krogan _charged_ , they didn't _change_. The asari had tried this road before, but apparently humans weren't smart enough to learn from history. The precedent was there, and the precedent was failure.

Unfortunately, Shepard's expenditures for damages caused was quite low, even for a Spectre of her length of service. To slap her on the wrist over this would look bad. Or possibly be seen as a challenge. And goodness knew Spectres were not above so-called 'minor abuses of power in a good cause.' At the very least, Shepard arranged for the krogan responsible to be returned to Tuchanka.

And his little varren, too.

Irissa rolled her eyes, shoving the datapad aside. For a moment, she took a long, deep breath, then exhaled it slowly, focusing her mind. The matter was over. It was done with.

-J-

Councilor Esheel finished reading the report, sighed, then signed the bottom. Shepard was one of the more responsible Spectres when it came to damages and offering protection from repercussions to individuals. In this case, she simply stated that the krogan was a part of her crew, now part of a krogan intra-cultural diplomatic initiative, and that he had been packed back to his planet of residence. Sorry for the mess.

Esheel didn't _like_ the idea of this krogan alliance…but the way Linron had fumed, fussed, and ranted to her left her distinctly unsympathetic to the Dalatrass. She wasn't enthusiastic about Shepard's plan, but Shepard was right about one thing: if the Reapers killed everyone, then none of this would matter anyway.

She shifted her attention to the letter from Shepard, insisting that the turian Primarch's private conversations somewhere in the Embassies had been overheard, that the mission was compromised as a result, and that C-Sec or the Council's personal staff might want to find these bugs and make sure there weren't anymore. With Cerberus playing the part of the wild card, they didn't need any more insight into what Team United was doing.

Esheel agreed, though maybe not with Shepard's pick of moniker. Calling the galaxy at large 'united' was a bit of a stretch, even for an optimist.

-J-

Councilor Sparatus sighed, wondering if he should be amused or not. It did sound a little like a crazy comedy, narrated in a rather dry fashion as it was. Well, windows _could_ be replaced, and none of the C-Sec officers were actually injured (although reading between the lines of Officer Gaius' report, he felt the demolition of his car counted as malicious wounding).

Frankly, he was more worried about Shepard's assertion that Cerberus had ears where they shouldn't. The Embassies and the Council Chambers had all been swept for bugs four times, each by a different member of each Councilor's staff. The likelihood of _everyone_ missing a bug because they were _all_ in Cerberus' pocket went down, and no one could get offended at being singled out in any way.

A few bugs _had_ been found, but they hadn't survived exposure. Now, Sparatus found himself looking for reasons to conduct business somewhere other than in his office. He hated that Cerberus succeeded in disrupting his schedule even by a talon's-length…but he had to admit that they _had_ succeeded in changing routine.

Point to them, the bastards.

-J-

Councilor Udina groaned as he regarded the list of expenditures and the reason therefore. This was why—one of the reasons why—he didn't like Shepard on the Citadel: if she wasn't causing diplomatic incidents, her unwashed cohorts _were_!

He shook his head.

Damn the Illusive Man for letting it get out that there were _bugs_ on the Citadel! And damn him _again_ for having them there in the first place! Udina had been more than a little taken aback when Shepard's message asserting Cerberus bugs were crawling all over the place, and that an exterminator needed to be called in quick.

He agreed. He didn't appreciate having someone breathing down his neck or sticking their nose into his affairs. For a moment, Udina wondered whether he was in over his head with Cerberus. But given how well they were consolidating power, well. Shepard's efforts couldn't compare with that. The war did need to be won, and 'Team United' wasn't where the balance of probability for victory lay.

That was the unpleasant truth.

He simply hoped Cerberus wouldn't bungle the upcoming coup. If they did, the chances were high he would be holding the bag…

Udina snorted, then looked over at Alenko, seated by the door, looking bored and trying not to. The man was useful. And if Cerberus tried to backstab him, Alenko would be still more useful. "Here. You may find this amusing." He held out the datapad with the escapade on it.

-J-

Martin Burns broke into a gale of laughter as he perused the copy of the altercation report, to the point he had to put the datapad down so he could flop over his desk and laugh into his arms to muffle the noise. It was perhaps the first time he had laughed so heartily since becoming the Human Ambassador. Certainly the best laugh he'd had since the war started. It sounded like the plot of a comedy, and goodness knew they could all use a few more laughs in this dark and dangerous galaxy.

No one was hurt, and nothing broken that couldn't be repaired. Collecting himself, Martin wondered how best to get Officer Gaius' car replaced without the man having to wait six months or more. There had to be a way to speed the process.


	252. Scrape

Tarquin Victus wanted to scream, but knew better than to actually do it. So he clamped his jaws together and pulled his mandibles close to his face. "Get to the escape shuttles!" He hated the shrill edge to his voice and hated even more that this was his fault.

Too little room to maneuver…the usual thing would have been a direct approach. However much he believed that this had been the better bet, it was a gamble he'd lost. He fell in at the back of the nearest group, wondering how many people were already dead and how many would be soon. If there wasn't much room to maneuver, there wasn't much place for the ejected shuttles to go.

"This is Victus! Once you're landed dig in! We'll recalculate from there!"

"Great plan, _sir_ ," someone muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.

Didn't he know it? He'd known he wasn't ready for this the moment he'd said 'this is Victus' and thought 'no, I'm not—that's my dad.' He had no doubt his father could have pulled off this kind of unconventional insertion…but his father wasn't here and he didn't doubt for one moment that this would just be the last nail in his coffin. He'd always been compared to his father but this was really the last proof that he just wasn't up to his father's standards.

He swung in his harness as the escape measure exploded out of its cradle.

Abruptly they stopped, the shuttle having hit something it couldn't go through. The sense of falling ended in another abrupt stop as the shuttle hit the ground. It was not a great place to be pinned, but he doubted there was such a place as a great place to be pinned.

"Alright, we're gonna dig in and find out how many we still have!" he barked.

"Are you asking us or telling us… _sir_?"

Again, Tarquin ignored the snide remark. There wasn't any point in noticing it when there were Reapers and Cerberus crawling all over the place.

He'd never expected to see Tuchanka…and he'd certainly never expected to die here.

He jumped out of the shuttle and immediately opened fire, the next two men out adding to the suppressing barrage.

There were massive pieces of stonework to hide behind, but they couldn't easily move laterally. Before them a superstructure whose shadowy depths could house anything or everything loomed.

Crap.

Tarquin didn't squeeze his eyes shut, knowing better than to hope for rescue. They were the ones supposed to be doing the rescuing—rescuing the whole planet from Cerberus' attempts to blow it up.

And speaking of things blowing up…

It wasn't that he cared so very much about Tuchanka or the krogan. What he did care about was that his father had trusted him and now he'd gone and screwed things up—maybe beyond salvaging. The thought dogged him as he cued the unit's channel. "Report in!"

How many men did he have? Cerberus numbers were supposed to be formidable and the krogan simply couldn't get enough people here quickly enough.

…also, it was better they never figure out about that bomb. Unexploded ordinance was always an awkward conversation. Or so he imagined.

Things grew even more awkward when he realized he'd lost not a third, not a half of his men but almost two thirds.

Two thirds!

He was grateful when Reapers began slithering out of the building. "Radioman! Send out the distress signal!" Tarquin shouted over the gunfire.

"Already done… _sir_."

Tarquin's insides twisted as the wave of Reapers slowly dwindled. He'd been so proud to have been trusted with something so secret and so important. He'd been so sure he could handle it. Apparently his father had been wrong to trust the mission to him and he'd been wrong not to confess he didn't feel ready for something so delicate and so important.

Not that it would do him any good; it had never done him any good to try to explain to his father than he wasn't ready for something. Granted, his father usually turned out to be right in his assertions that if Tarquin wasn't ready training would kick in and he'd be fine.

This was the one time his father had been wrong: Tarquin simply didn't know what to do.

That low thought was when the survivors started radioing in that they were suffering losses—some of them swarmed by Reapers while they were still on the radio with him.

-J-

The sun marched over the Tuchanka sky and Tarquin still didn't know what to do. He wasn't entirely sure where he was in relation to the bomb and he wasn't sure his men couldn't get to it even if they knew where it was versus where they were.

"Anything on the radio?" he demanded for maybe the ninetieth time.

"Told you, _sir_ , the radio's signal crapped out. We're on our own."

If they weren't turians he'd be looking at a mutiny, he knew.

"Get down!"

Tarquin looked around to see the source of trouble before someone—with a curse he'd never heard before—grabbed him and force him to the ground. "Damn it Victus! Get your head out of your ass!"

Tarquin gaped at the sky as a massive winged thing swept over them.

"I've got something on the radio!" the radioman barked.

" _This is Captain Shepard, Alliance navy!_ "

He knew the name—she was the one whose ship his father was riding around on. His father had sent this war hero to scoop him out of trouble…and he could only imagine the tongue-lashing in store for him.

Not that he didn't deserve it, but the prospect wasn't pleasant…

…but if it saved his men…

The turian who'd pulled him down smacked his breastplate.

"This is Lt. Tarquin Victus, Ninth Platoon!" he barked over the radio. "We're pinned by Reaper air support and taking heavy casualties!"

"Hurry it up, _sir_! Big force coming in!"

They were all dead. He just knew it.


	253. Harvested

Author's Note: this chapter is flagged for ideologically sensitive topics. I felt a little uneasy writing this, so let me pass that unease on to you. This chapter is about Oriana, and the fact that Henry Lawson is an egomaniac and a creep. If you choose to skip it, you will only miss Oriana's motivation/resolution not to stay where she is told.

-J-

Oriana Lawson was slow to wake. So slow that she had time, as her brain sought to make all the necessary connections and fire up properly, that she had time to ruminate on the matter. It wasn't like her to be this slow to wake up. In fact, the very sluggishness of her return to consciousness left her frightened.

Finally, she pried her eyes open. She was in her own room—or what everyone called 'her room'—in Henry Lawson's Sanctuary complex. It was dim, and she seemed to be quite alone.

Sleep rolled back in, leaving her quicker to wake the next time. Again, in 'her room.' Again, it was dark and comfortable on her eyes. Unlike before, Nurse Kensington was in the room, seated in a corner, reading from a datapad that cast a reddish glow across her features.

"I feel sick," Oriana announced groggily.

Nurse Kensington jumped up at these words, bustled over and poured her a glass of water. "And I've been so worried about that," the woman declared with a sigh. "Do you remember what happened, dear?"

She hated it when Nurse Kensington called her 'dear.' Oriana accepted the water, drinking slowly. The sick, stodgy feeling didn't go away, nor did the sensation of a painless headache: like the memory of having someone club her over the back of the head. It didn't hurt, but it was disorienting.

Her fingers were sleepy and stupid as she handled the cup, then returned it to Nurse Kensington. "What time is it?"

"Just after three in the afternoon," Nurse Kensington answered briskly, turning the lights up a little.

Oriana squinted, but was glad to find she did so as she might on any early morning. Except this wasn't an early morning. "What happened?" she said, wondering if she could get up and move around, or if the latent drowsiness—there was no way that was natural—would prevent her.

"Well, dear, you passed out just after dinner," Nurse Kensington answered. "I can tell you, it caused such a fuss!"

She didn't remember passing out. She remembered picking at her meal, remembered that her own mutinous silence had finally begun to affect her parents, as if her antipathy towards Henry Lawson and this whole place finally began getting through to them. She'd finally begun to hope that maybe she could convince them he wasn't a friend, that this wasn't the safe place portrayed by a fake philanthropist.

She didn't know what he was up to, but she didn't believe for a moment it had anyone's best interests at heart. Least of all her own.

"…gave you back to me last night and said you'd just need to sleep it off," Nurse Kensington concluded.

Oriana shifted, limbs slow to respond, as limbs often were when one slept long, heavily, and with unusual stillness. "Can you get Mom and Dad?"

Silence greeted this.

Oriana opened her eyes, forced her vision to focus. "Can you get Mom and Dad?" she repeated, more sharply.

Nurse Kensington looked upset. "I'm sorry, dear, but they were moved into the secure living facilities."

Oriana closed her eyes, willing herself not to tear up. Her success was limited.

"Mr. Lawson thinks we'll be open in a few weeks, you see, and he hoped that having a few people already settled might help the refugees settle in faster, once they arrive."

That was _his_ story. The tears burned in Oriana's eyes as the knowledge that she was now totally alone and under Henry Lawson's thumb clawed at her.

She sat up too fast, a tugging pain low on her abdomen making her gasp.

Nurse Kensington looked bewildered, and for once Oriana suspected the woman was out of the loop.

"I need to pee." With that, gingerly, Oriana got up, aware of the thin line of pain grumbling at her moving around. She made it to the bathroom, shut and locked the door, ignoring Nurse Kensington's apparently genuine concern.

With no small amount of trepidation, Oriana shimmied her pants down and peeled the waistband of her underwear down, too. A thin, pink line of healing flesh, neatly covered in medigel stood out low on her abdomen.

She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sound halfway between a gasp and a whimper.

Miranda had been so adamant that Henry Lawson fancied himself father-head of a dynasty. She knew she had been…made…to replace Miranda. It was why she was here, now: he wanted his investment.

She'd always wondered just how disgusting Henry Lawson's plans for her were. In some ways, this was not the worst thing…but it was degrading in its own way. That megalomaniac didn't really need _her_ anymore.

He had half her eggs. If she proved more trouble than she was worth…

Oriana's hands balled into fists as tight as her current state allowed. Biotic corona flared around her, weak and trembling without her implant.

It was disgusting, nauseating to think she'd been harvested in such a fashion, made her want to cringe and rage at the same time.

She kicked off her pants, glowering at the door, behind which Nurse Kensington waited. Her breath came in pants, a mix of anger and fear causing sweat to stand out on her skin. Did he think she wouldn't _notice_?

And now she was alone.

Wondering if she was going to throw up, she flung the door open to find Nurse Kensington making the bed. "Oriana!"

Half dazed, Oriana moved the waistband on her underwear so the healing wound would show.

Nurse Kensington's expression was one of blank non-comprehension. Slowly, as she looked at the wound that shouldn't be there, a shadow of doubt crossed her face.

"What kind of man drugs his daughter and then _harvests_ her?" she demanded softly, the tears spilling from her eyes as she stomped over to her bureau. "I need a shower," she growled. "Get out."

Nurse Kensington, now looking highly uneasy, as though just peering into a deep abyss, got out.


	254. Talk

Alenko jerked awake as his omnitool buzzed cheerfully beneath his hand. He took a moment to blink sleep out of his eyes, ran a hand though his hair, then answered the call.

" _Hey_ ," Shepard smiled wearily from the screen. The room in which she sat was dark, but she was visible in shades of aqua light. It reminded him of aquarium exhibit, rending her eyes a less startling color.

"Hey, you." It was an oddly personal moment—perhaps because they were both in darkened rooms so late at night. "Long day?"

" _Could have been worse. I caught your induction on the extranet—did they give you a cake?_ "

"They did, and I had a sliver on your behalf—all I could manage: there was a lot of hand-shaking and making pretty speeches."

" _Thanks_ ," Shepard grimaced as if to say 'better you than me.'

"The 'real' induction—you know, meet and greet—comes later. This Spectre calling herself 'Pyjak' called me the other day and swore up and down that she'd get something together. It was a bit scary, to tell the truth…she reminded me vaguely of your descriptions of O'Conner."

" _Well, I suppose there's at least one O'Conner in every species. We're okay_ ," she continued in a conspiratorial whisper, " _as long as they don't all get in the same room_."

"You didn't tell me Spectres had call signs. What's yours? Tiger? Bulldozer?"

Shepard looked to the ceiling as though the amusement was a balm to her soul. Seeing how much a little gentle humor affected her made him more eager than ever to get on with _doing things_. Even if that meant being tethered to the Citadel. " _I didn't know. All the ones I've met just went by their real names_."

"'All the ones I've met'? Past Nihlus and Saren?"

" _Long story—save it for facetime_ ," Shepard advised.

"That good, huh?"

" _It's got car chases. Stick me in a little black dress and you'd have a spy vid_."

"Little black dress, huh?" That would be something to see…though privately he maintained that her best color was lavender—like the only dress he ever saw her wear.

" _Back to the point: I don't know that I have one. A callsign. I suppose 'the Human' was enough…or just 'Shepard.' It's not like I could blend in. Still can't—no chance they'd mistake me for you_."

Alenko chuckled. No, there was no way to mistake them, one for the other. Shepard was compact and hit with the force of a charging krogan. He was a solid hulk and could throw a charging krogan across a room without thinking twice about it. "No, I'm afraid you stand out, even in a crowd of humans."

" _It's the eyes_ ," she sighed. " _So, have they let you into the special reserve, yet_?"

Alenko shifted into a more comfortable position. "Actually, yes; I even got daring and took the identifying tokens off my uniform."

" _Always a big step_." Shepard settled back, her eyes drifting across her own comm unit. When she shifted, the bear he got for her appeared briefly in frame. " _Have you put them back on yet_?"

"Where are you, now?" Alenko asked, sitting up and rearranging his pillows.

" _In my quarters, trying to settle down for the night. But don't worry_ ," she held up a hand, " _I'd much rather sit here and talk with you than work at falling asleep. Big day tomorrow_."

He knew not to ask, so he didn't. Like his questions about this krogan altercation, this one could wait. He had the odd feeling Udina hadn't shared the report because it was funny…which it was.

They shared a span of silence, the most companionable silence that had fallen between them in a long time. When he caught Shepard twitch, as though she'd begun to fall asleep, he spoke again. "What's with the funny lights?"

" _Hmm? Oh, those are from the empty fish tanks_ ," she answered, blinking rapidly.

"Empty fish—" he trailed off, not sure he heard her correctly.

" _Empty fish tanks_ ," she repeated, as if she explained them often. " _They put fish tanks in the Captain's quarters—and I'm not willing to see if I can keep fish alive. No fair to buy them and then starve them through neglect._ "

"There're VIs that will manage that, Shepard. You'd like fish: they're quiet and boring."

Shepard made a face. " _I can think of other things I'd rather spend the credits on_."

"Ammunition?" he guessed, only half-joking.

She grinned. " _Specialty only_."

"Omnitool mods."

" _Definitely_."

"Anything that _doesn't_ go boom or cause static?"

" _What fun are things that don't go boom or cause static_?" Shepard smiled again, but in the vague way of someone reaching the end of the battle against sleep. " _I don't know. The crew is starting to settle—acquire personal personal effects, if you know what I mean. I just…haven't got around to thinking much in that direction_."

She wouldn't get around to it, either, without someone leaning on her. Some of Thane's concerns about Shepard being good at keeping body and soul together but neglecting other aspects of 'health' came back to Alenko. "Maybe we'll find time to go for a walk—window shopping, maybe." Babysitting Udina didn't allow for a lot of free time.

Shepard crinkled her nose. " _I was under the impression that shopping would be…unpalatable…to most men._ "

Garrus probably wouldn't do it, Alenko thought smugly. "It can be."

" _And I'm not exactly a mall-crawl kind of woman_."

"No, you're not."

" _So…enlighten me_ ," her mouth curved into a smile, anticipatory of a joke she couldn't see coming. " _Why window shopping_?"

"Maybe it's less about the shopping and more about who you're walking with."

Shepard opened mouth, closed it. From the way her mouth jerked—an involuntary smile—the answer clearly disarmed and pleased her. "… _okay. I could do that_."

"Next time you're here, I'll clear my afternoon. Well go to Zakera Ward—your ads are still up."

All Shepard's teeth showed, this time, as her 'glad-to-be-ruining-someone's-day' smile appeared.


	255. Fall In

Nadia stopped, holding up her hand for silence and stillness. With only three of the nine (herself included) turians from her escape shuttle alive, she'd done what any competent NCO would do: get them moving. Unfortunately, to her it seemed like they were going around in circles. The only reason no one—herself included—had brought this forward was because they hadn't started tripping over the Reaper corpses they had made earlier.

Without locator equipment, except their personal locators, with no way to track more of their own men, the best that could be hoped for was to stumble into other shuttles of survivors. Unfortunately, there weren't many. It didn't bode well, and she worried for Tarquin. He was a good kid, had the makings of a good officer…but she doubted if even Adrien Victus could have made this insertion with any better results.

What a mess. And now, the Ninth Platoon was decimated, scattered, and the objective might as well be back on Menae as far as she was concerned: even if she could get to it, she wasn't sure what she could do about it.

Muscles in her back and left leg ached, pulling unpleasantly. It took a lot of work for a turian to strain leg muscles, but she'd surely done it, tripping out of the escape shuttle to push the Reapers off it. They looked like they might eat someone alive, if that person couldn't put up enough of a fight.

And that was something else no one said about Reapers: the _stink_ of them. Like…like a butcher's shop, a morgue, and a portable toilet that hadn't been cleaned in about half a century and all of this in one place on a very sunny Palaveni day. Whew. Fortunately, it meant they would never be able to attack from upwind: people would smell them before the ambush hit.

Suddenly, there on the edge of hearing, was the distinctive pop-pop of gunfire, and sharp, staccato shouts. Turian hearing being what it was, Nadia realized the voice she kept hearing was that of a human female, higher in pitch so it carried better.

"Cerberus?" Decimus asked, looking nervous.

"Dunno. Let's have a look," Nadia answered, waving the others to stay slightly behind her. There was no reason to believe they weren't Cerberus, except that the possibility existed that they weren't. Nadia had no real opinion about humans, good or bad, because she'd had very little contact with them.

She edged forward, spotted a small war party of such a mixed bag of species she almost laughed. Not Cerberus, then. Not mercenaries, either: the two humans both wore Alliance colors. "You there!" she barked. "Name and rank!"

The team turned quickly, weapons half-rising. "Shepard, Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. You one of Adrien's?"

Nadia grinned at the trick question: anyone who didn't know who the commanding officer of this mission was, but who wanted to get in close, would say 'yes.' Waving her men to join her, Nadia came out from cover, moving slowly on account of her leg and out of caution. Her eyes darted around the mixed bag of fighters, lingering for a moment on the tragically scarred but still-handsome turian. "One of Tarquin's NCOs," she answered. "I've heard of you, Shepard."

"I was wondering where all the survivors were." Shepard glanced around the ruins. "Is this all of you?"

"Afraid so. Our shuttle came free clean, but we hit something pretty solid. Then the Reapers swarmed us. That wasn't pretty." To say so was an understatement, but Nadia didn't want to think back to that, just now. "Is Tarquin alive?"

"Yeah, we've got him on and off the radio," Shepard answered.

Nadia sighed heavily. "Good. He's a good kid."

"What happened here?"

Nadia shrugged. "We cleared the cannon Cerberus refitted and got that taken care of, no problem. Looked like Tarquin was starting to feel a little more confident, which had a good effect on the men. When it came to our primary objective—"

"Which was?" Shepard interjected.

Nadia's mandibles trembled. "…you'll have to ask Lt. Victus, ma'am. It's his operation."

Shepard grimaced, then sighed as if asking if she would answer any differently to a Spectre.

"Anyway," Nadia continued, aware of the annoyance emanating from her fellow turian. "For the second objective, it was either come in low or a straight-on run-up. Either way was risky, and Tarquin decided to take us through these ruins. Better cover, element of surprise, that kind of thing. Unfortunately…it was a tight space and we ran into resistance."

"Got it. Are you three fit to travel?"

"To be honest," Nadia dropped her voice so the others wouldn't hear confirmation of what they'd all been thinking. "We've been walking around in circles since we got out of our shuttle. If you could help us get back to our unit, we'd be grateful."

"But not grateful enough to share your objective," a green alien she'd never seen before pointed out darkly.

"If it were up to me, I'd tell you what I know. But if you've been travelling with the Primarch and _he_ hasn't told you, I don't think I should. So here's what I can tell you: there were Cerberus-held assets on Tuchanka, and the Primarch dispatched Lt. Victus to slap those assets out of Cerberus' nasty mitts."

Shepard seemed to chew on this, reading between the lines, her bright eyes behind her visor focused and thoughtful. "I understand your position…"

"Sgt. Nadia Hadrus."

"Alright, sergeant. I'll ask Tarquin when I see him." And her tone suggested that, if she couldn't worm it out of Victus Sr., she would _definitely_ get it out of Victus Jr., or this was just a wasted trip for everyone.

Nadia couldn't help approving: the truth would come out eventually. Why Primarch Victus wanted to wait until it exploded like a hand grenade in the field, she couldn't even begin to guess. But if he wasn't saying anything, there had to be a good reason.


	256. Swift Kick

"All right," Shepard barked. Her tone was so unmistakably that of the competent OIC that half the surviving turians perked up, as they might do had she actually been their OIC. "We'll figure out what's going on and what's—"

"We can _tell_ you what the—" one of the soldiers began. The rigors of a battlefield unlike any they'd ever seen, an enemy they couldn't have imagined, and the loss of many friends weren't doing anyone any favors.

"Hey," Shepard made a slashing motion with one hand, "We've got Reapers _en masse_ and I don't feel like getting my face or my ass chewed off. Garrus, pick a team and start triage. Vega, find out what the immediate resources are. EDI, make sure I've got an open channel to the Normandy ready." She wasn't sure she wanted to put Victus Jr. And Victus Sr. in communications just yet…not until things settled. Not until she was sure it wouldn't completely undermine the boy's command.

She was acting OIC, yes, but only in the very near foreseeable future. She had no intention of doing this kid's job and every intention of giving him a good kick to get him going again. It had worked on her, in the past.

"We have a channel." EDI responded promptly.

"All right, everyone not helping Garrus, dig in. Lieutenant, a word, please?" Shepard didn't beckon him to follow, she simply walked to the hull of the ship, to a niche that provided cover on two sides and which afforded her a good look at both the fortification efforts and the battlefield beyond. If an attack came, she would not be caught flat-footed by it. "What happened here, Lieutenant?"

From the way Tarquin Victus shuffled, she suspected he was expecting a soldier of his father's type and generation. Marks from the pressure of being the son of Adrian Victus were all over him. The kid might be command material but he lacked the confidence, was the type who constantly second-guessed himself and always found himself being judged by the standards his father set. He was very rarely 'Tarquin Victus' and usually 'Adrian Victus' son.'

"It's my fault, I made a bad call," he began, giving Shepard an indistinct feeling that, while he believed this, he also believed it was better for _him_ to admit it than to wait for someone else to say it.

This sort of thing sometimes happened in military families.

"Bad calls happ—" a loud roar cut the conversation.

Shepard tensed. She'd wondered why Harvesters hadn't come swooping down on them, why more ground troops hadn't swarmed them. When she looked back to him, Tarquin wasn't looking at the sky; his expression was the dead set one of someone who didn't know what to do and was wondering whether, if he _had_ known what to do, he would have been capable of doing it.

A green officer. Victus Sr. had committed one of the capital sins of military life: trusting more in blood than in experience. It was odd to find that in a turian.

"Change of plan, we'll discuss this later." But she had no intention of doing his job for him. He wasn't dead, so he was still in play, and if she had her way he'd stay in play and be a better officer for it.

 _If_ she had her way.

"I understand that you've lost men, that's never easy, but right now you've still got guys you haven't lost. So let's worry about them. There's cover back that way, we had to go through it. Pack your men up into the shuttles and we'll fall back, plan our next steps." She cast around, checking on progress. "It's too open here."

"Got that feeling, do you?" Garrus rumbled as he approached. "Four-eyed uglies…"

"Back of my neck, that's the one," Shepard agreed. " _Lieutenant_ , your men."

Tarquin opened his mouth, surprised that she hadn't simply barked orders herself.

"This is still your unit, Lieutenant."

"This is your _first_ command, isn't it?" Garrus asked blandly.

Tarquin nodded, looking sheepish.

"All right, welcome to OJT." Shepard and Garrus both closed ranks so Tarquin's men wouldn't see his expression. Now that Garrus had joined the gathering, they were beginning to watch and wait for instructions.

Part of this passivity in taking action, Shepard realized with a lurch, was due to hers and Garrus' presences: they were two of the foremost Reaper experts, and both were on the ground _right now._

Three, she corrected herself. Liara was, after all, here too…but Garrus had been on the front lines longer…

"First step's easy: get them in the shuttles, we'll fall back. Second step's hard, but we'll talk about it later. Off you go." And she thumped Tarquin bracingly on the shoulder.

She began to radiate that unshakable patience she exuded when maneuvering someone to do something, the patience of a boulder letting moss grow and cover it. She could wait forever…

…and to her pleasure, one of the most hot-headed in-your-face turians she had ever had the pleasure of knowing was doing the exact same thing.

His beady eyes made it a much more effective exertion of pressure.

Tarquin glanced at Garrus, nodded, swallowed hard, then nodded again before slipping around them.

"He's a good kid," Garrus noted. "Might even be a good officer if he gets past this."

"Yeah. What's the turian doctrine say about a thing like this, though?"

"Doesn't matter what the reason, it still happened. The turian code…it's pretty rigid. As far as we're concerned," he shook his head as Tarquin's men began to load the undamaged shuttles. It would be a tight fit, but it wouldn't be for long.

Given the speed with which the integrity of the transports was assessed, she was sure EDI had taken the initiative.

"As far as you're concerned?" Shepard prompted when Garrus trailed off.

"As far as _we're_ concerned," he emphasized the party in question, "we've made do with less than ideal circumstances before."


	257. Stand

Tarquin seized on the list of instructions, which helped quell the nausea currently threatening to overtake him. He had the distinct impression that Shepard and/or Vakarian would make him finish this mission himself. They weren't going to swing in, take over, and run it for him.

Part of him wished they would. Part of him was glad they weren't.

Shepard was right. Right now, he had injured men, and this wasn't a great locale. It _would_ be better to fall back.

His favorite NCO fell in at his shoulder, limping painfully. He'd been glad to see her following in Shepard's wake. "They're going to ask about the objective," Nadia said quietly. "I told them we were here to deprive Cerberus of assets, but nothing else. Figured if the Primarch wasn't talking, neither should I."

Tarquin nodded. It was a good answer, if lacking in specifics. There was a reason Nadia was his favorite NCO.

"But they're going to find out sooner or later. Human and turian engineering looks different. The Normandy excepted, there's no confusing the two."

And that only because the Normandy was a hybrid project, featuring design elements from both peoples.

Which meant it might really be better to tell Shepard the truth, even if his father wasn't talking. She was going to find out, and wouldn't it be better for her to find out from him before she had to find out from the bomb itself? If he sat on this, she might think she couldn't trust him. They didn't need that kind of friction.

Tarquin glanced back at Shepard, who stood in somber conference with Vakarian.

"Alright, we're falling back to proper cover," Tarquin announced, grateful his voice didn't wobble or squeak or otherwise show his inner discomfort. "All those who are able, let's get our wounded into the shuttles."

Again, he was thankful that turian vessels used escape _shuttles_. They might not be good for long jaunts in space, but if they weren't damaged during ejection, they could serve as good transportation on-planet. Other species preferred pods to be collected later, but turians were practical: what if you didn't land somewhere ideal?

He sensed the only reason he didn't get arguments was because the others sensed that Shepard would cut in and bring argument to heel: argument came later, right now was 'fall back to cover and care for the wounded.'

"Alright, boys," Nadia cut in, limping forward a few steps.

Tarquin watched the painful motion concernedly; it took a lot to injure a turian's legs. They'd developed that way: there was a time when a lame turian was a dead turian. There was also a time when a lame turian was a social liability. Not recently, but as a species developed for running, for swift movement, legs were important.

"Let's get our people packed up." Nadia got obedience where he got balking compliance.

Tarquin sighed inwardly, then fell to, helping move the most critically wounded. Well, at least Vakarian hadn't worn that disappointed 'how can you be Adrien Victus' son and screw up like this?' look. He would have ventured to say Shepard hadn't worn that look either, but he didn't have enough experience with humans to be entirely certain.

"Lieutenant Victus!" Shepard called, when he exited the shuttle. Joining her and Vakarian, he found the strangely synthetic entity had joined them. From the synthetic entity's arm (or concealed omnitool) glowed a map of the region. "EDI picked us out a nice spot. You'll need the coordinates," she continued smoothly.

'EDI' turned, so he could see the display more easily. "Here. The cover is good, and the Reaper forces reduced by our own efforts. The space is also more defensible, and inaccessible to Reaper air units," she declared.

He knew he should be worried about an apparently synthetic entity, but right now his concern over the mission took up all of his brain power.

He should tell Shepard what they were in for. But…but maybe now wasn't the time? No, no, get his men seen to first, _then_ worry about the objective. The three soldiers Shepard's team scooped up didn't exactly bolster the ranks. Two thirds of his men dead or unaccounted for.

Two thirds!

Vakarian cleared his throat preemptively. When Tarquin looked up, he found everyone looking at him. "Yes, yes, of course. Let me have the coordinates, and we'll shuttle back."

"You don't mind if we ride with you?" Shepard asked gently.

…oh. Because they'd have to walk, otherwise. "Of course not."

Shepard nodded. As she passed, she patted his shoulder. "I'll be lending a hand with triage."

"Are you…familiar with turians?" Tarquin asked before he thought about it.

"I only ever killed the dummy. Don't worry."

Vakarian snorted, chuckling softly. " _Very_ reassuring, Shepard.

Shepard paused, glancing back at with a grin at Vakarian. Some of Tarquin's uncertainty must have shown, for Shepard held up a reassuring hand. "Relax. The N-program covers battlefield medicine, xeno inclusive. And I spent six months beefing up, just in case." With that, she struck off, disappearing into one of the shuttles.

"She'll be fine," Vakarian assured him.

It was just him and Vakarian. Vakarian was a turian. He'd understand. He could tell Vakarian about the bomb, and Vakarian could decide what, when, how much or if they should tell Shepard…

Tarquin studied the scarred features as Vakarian scanned the makeshift camp, almost cleared. "There's something I need to tell you about this bomb, sir," Tarquin offered meekly.

"We've got that impression," Vakarian answered mildly. "You need to tell Shepard. But not right now. Wait until we've got a measure of security. She'll have it out of you one way or another, but it's better if she doesn't have to drag it out."

He was afraid Vakarian would say that: don't tell me, tell the CO, and don't waste her time by making her pry it out of you. "Yes, sir."

"Alright! Load up!" Nadia barked.

Vakarian patted Tarquin's shoulder reassuringly, before striking off for a shuttle.


	258. Good Advice

"Hey, Lieutenant," Nadia called from where she sat in the shuttle's crew cabin. Since Tarquin wasn't piloting—the sergeant who was made it clear, almost to the point at which Nadia would have called her down, that she didn't quite trust Tarquin to do it right—she crooked a talon at him to come join her. The kid looked like he was about to be sick. Nadia hoped he wouldn't, not until they could get the shuttle unloaded. If Tarquin started puking, she knew for a fact that the sight, sound, and smell of it would trigger everyone else's stress levels to the point of emulating him.

She'd seen it before, though not with Tarquin. Still, best if everyone didn't start puking their boots up.

"I've got some advice for you," she added in an undertone once he was close enough to hear her.

She needed to give it now: she doubted very much that she would be permitted to stay with the group when she would have such trouble keeping up with them. Her injuries, while not critical, did make her something of a liability. This mission couldn't afford liabilities. A turian who couldn't keep up with the group was a liability.

She took a moment to curse vehemently at the Reapers and Cerberus, but only a moment, and only within the confines of her own mind. Doing it out loud wouldn't help anyone, least of all Tarquin.

Tarquin made his way over to where she sat, settling down beside her and leaning in to listen. He fidgeted where he sat, waiting—as he always seemed to—for someone to start picking at him. That was one of his difficulties: he was conditioned to expect unfavorable comparisons to his father.

They should have let that poor boy go in under his mother's name. The name Victus had finally become too much for successive generations to live up to.

"I don't know how you feel about humans and humans in authority. But you pay attention to what this Spectre tells you to do, and figure up the why of why she tells you to do it," Nadia advised. "I've got a good feeling about her."

Nadia had seen good officers and bad officers during her time on active duty. She got the same feel from Shepard she'd gotten from some of the best officers she'd ever had the good fortune to serve with. Namely, Shepard hadn't usurped Tarquin's command: she simply gave him the good old fashioned word, then made him lead his own men like he was supposed to. Nadia approved. Stripping Tarquin of his responsibilities in front of his men, just because his men were disinclined to follow him, would only cripple his ability to lead in future. It might be more expedient, it might be what the men would prefer—competent, tried and tested leadership, never mind that her amino acids were all weird—but it wouldn't be what was best in the long run. Good officers considered that sort of thing, and dealt with it, even if it meant things were a little more complicated or labor intensive on their parts.

Tarquin nodded.

"Watch how she manages her own people. That'd be good, too. And don't let _anything_ happen to that cute butt of yours." This last was a bit of a running joke, but it might be the last chance she got to invoke it this mission.

Tarquin was too stressed and distressed to laugh, but he gave her a dirty look, which left Nadia grinning.

"Be a shame if something happened to it. That's all I'm saying," she added impishly.

"Thanks, Nadia. You're a real pal," Tarquin sighed, shaking his head.

"Don't I know it?" she asked cheerfully.

Tarquin rolled his eyes. "Anything else?"

Nadia considered, then shook her head. "Nope. Just get it done. You can still do this."

Tarquin's dubious expression said everything he didn't. "…will you tell my father…will you tell him I'm sorry?"

Nadia wiped the grin off, replacing it with her sternest NCO expression. "I'm not going to march up to the Primarch of the Turian Hierarchy and give him an unsolicited character reference from some raw lieutenant, _Lieutenant_ ," she answered bluntly.

Tarquin flinched. Sometimes, Nadia thought darkly, he got too hung up on who his dad was, apologized for every little thing even when no apology was necessary. True, this was a real mess, but no other lieutenant in Tarquin's position would expect his NCO to apologize like that to the Primarch. They'd be more interested in digging themselves out of trouble and making sure the mission was accomplished.

"Look." She put a hand on his shoulder. "You need to think like a soldier right now, not like a son. You're not 'Adrien Victus' boy' until you're on the same ship as he is. You get me? Until then, you're Lieutenant Victus—no relation—of the Ninth Platoon. You have to be: your men need you to be."

"They need a better officer," Tarquin answered in an agonized whisper.

"No," Nadia answered patiently. "They need you to put aside 'damn, I screwed up' and get on with your job. Pick yourself up, dust yourself, off, and get back in there."

After a few moments of studying her tough, competent, stern expression, Tarquin nodded, though he still looked unconvinced. He didn't argue though, and that was the thing, the first sign that he was at least trying to get his headspace cleared out.

Nadia sighed, but there was nothing else to say. Anything more and she'd just send Tarquin spiraling further into this low mindset. That wouldn't do anyone any good. "Like I said, take your cues from Shepard. Because I don't think she's going to let you defer to her." Nadia hoped she was right about that.

Tarquin looked up, uneasily. "…you don't?"

"Nope. I think she's going to make you finish your mission, so it's best if you can get your brain squared away to do it."


	259. Omissions

Adrian Victus watched Shepard's image, full of static, cross her arms. Tuchanka was hard on equipment, but he could see that she looked angry and he wondered which reason she had for it. As he tried to guess, he felt his stomach seem to fill with liquid apprehension. "Captain." Best to play innocent for the moment, until he knew exactly what he was working with. If part of him felt bad for withholding possibly vital information, he mothballed it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd put a unit on the ground without a complete picture of what was going on—but to his credit the only things he withheld were the bomb's origin and the real reason for Tarquin running the operation.

" _We've suffered a setback_ ," she said bluntly, her lips thinning. " _This is that kid's first command, isn't it?_ " The fact clearly upset her, but he couldn't see why: everyone had a first command, sooner or later, and this wasn't even a Reaper-infested zone. Surely even a green officer would hold up well enough against human terrorists with delusions of being a real army. She had to know all that, which made him wonder if there wasn't a deeper reason for her upset.

"Yes, I'm afraid so." Tarquin was still a little grey, but not incapable. He wouldn't have tasked his son with this mission if he thought the boy incapable. So what had gone so wrong that she couldn't see the capability, however raw?

" _With all due respect,_ dammit _, Victus_ ," Shepard swore softly, running a hand through her hair before exhaling sharply. " _He's fine_ ," she continued, as if Victus had asked the question in his mind, " _or, I should say, he's alive and not badly injured. Can't say the same for the rest of his unit._ "

"Casualties?" Victus asked, squashing his nerves. Here it was: whatever went wrong had gone _badly_ wrong.

" _Two thirds at least. Maybe more. We've got a lot of injuries. Most of them have been stabilized, but some of these men aren't getting up to fight again. I'm going to shuttle them up to the_ Normandy _for safekeeping. You can redirect from there and Dr. Chakwas can do a little fine-tuning._ "

Damn it all. "What happened?"

" _Sometimes you get unlucky. This was one of those times,_ " Shepard answered without really answering his question. Possibly this was one of those points Garrus had warned him about, when Shepard took issue with the rigidity of the turian code of conduct. It probably meant that Tarquin had tried something clever that backfired.

Victus wanted to groan quietly: there it was. One of the drawbacks of being something of a maverick. His son had inherited the trait but not the ability to successfully apply it. Damn it all.

"I need to speak with him. About the mission." Tarquin would need coaching from here on in. If Shepard, krogan-supporter that she was, got wind of the bomb's origin…they didn't need that kind of division.

" _Bad idea_ , _sir. He's thinking like a soldier right now but if I send him in here he's going to start thinking like a son. A son, moreover, who's disappointed daddy,_ " she responded without heat but with implacable determination. " _This is his op. Let him finish it_."

It sounded like she'd had this sort of experience before. It was sound advice, and Victus had to wonder if he'd asked to see his son as a commanding officer or as a father.

He'd asked as a father, which was, perhaps, why he let Shepard have her way without argument. Of the two of them, she had the less sentiment and the greater foresight. Take away Tarquin's operation now and the lad's ability to lead might be permanently damaged.

"I…suppose that's for the best. What's the situation?" Victus asked, forcing himself to move on.

" _Are you familiar with the term 'Charlie Foxtrot'? Because that's what this is,_ " Shepard answered.

He was not familiar with the term, but from what he could tell it meant things were almost fouled up beyond repair.

" _We're going to put together a new plan, then shuttle in. Cerberus has a lot of troopers crawling around_. _There's something about this that stinks, but I can't put my finger on it._ "

Oh, yes, something stank all right. "It'll take them time for them to manipulate the detonator." This was true, certainly, and their one little grace—

Shepard's eyes narrowed. " _Wait a minute…how do you know it'll take time for them to manipulate the detonator? If it's their bomb, I mean?_ " She'd just grasped it—or maybe she'd had it all along, and had simply been playing innocent herself, hoping to jog him into a misstep. Normally, he would have felt it unbecoming in an ally, but in light of his own omissions…

Damn it all. "Surely you of all people know—"

" _Talk to me, Primarch, or I take this up with your son_." It was not a hostile threat, it was simply a fact.

Victus studied Shepard closely. The situation being what it was…no. He trusted Tarquin. Tarquin would be able to separate necessary facts from unnecessary ones. But part of him persisted in screaming that this was not the way to play when it came to Shepard. Unfortunately, he did not share Garrus' uncompromising faith in Shepard. Their alliance was too new for that.

"What doyou want me to stay, Captain? Surely you, of all people, appreciate operational security. You know what you need to know." Even as he said it, he knew he was making a big mistake.

" _I do_." Shepard nodded once, and he knew what she was thinking: 'two can play this game.' " _Yes, sir. I'll be in touch._ " With that, she severed the uplink.

Victus leaned heavily on the railing in the communications center. As he considered what he hadn't told her, the way the mission was progressing…

…he was in for an earful when she got back. He couldn't say he looked forward to it.


	260. Lesson

"Vega!" Shepard called as she stepped out of the shuttle. Her mouth was set in that thin line, the one meaning she wanted to sail into someone and—for whatever reason—couldn't. He smirked inwardly, pleased to discover that he was learning his CO's expressions. They were sometimes minute, like this one.

"Ma'am?" Vega straightened up. He wasn't much help when it came to triage, so he'd positioned himself with Javik in order to watch for any incoming trouble. Javik was a great way to make an already grim mission depressing. To the Prothean's credit, though, he kept quiet.

Also to the Prothean's credit, he seemed in his element even if he radiated disapproval. Vega was beginning to suspect that Javik's emotional range had deteriorated to the point that 'disapproval' and 'full-on rage' were all the Prothean had left, and the guy was too stupid to realize this was a drawback and not a strength.

Whatever. Shepard wanted him, the Prothean was good in a fight. That was all he needed.

When Vega had joined her, Shepard spoke softly but briskly. "Tarquin needed a moment, he's behind that shuttle." Vega thought he knew what she meant by that, and it wasn't at all surprising. "Go stand there and when he comes back out, keep him company."

Vega frowned his confusion, but was not sure he should ask for clarification.

Thankfully, she either caught his confusion or recognized she hadn't really told him anything useful to having the situation in hand. "You have the most common ground. I need him balanced out if he's going to finish this. You don't have to make conversation unless he starts it. Just be there, I think it'll be enough."

If Shepard wanted Tarquin to finish the op, then Tarquin was going to finish the op. Vega knew Shepard well enough, by this point, to know she would wrangle the kid by the collar if she had to. She'd prefer not to, but his op, his foul, his fix.

"I'll do my best." He wasn't sure what that would be, or how he was going to do it, but the answer satisfied Shepard. Pep talks really were more her thing than his.

"That'll be fine. If he asks about his men, we're sending the one with the worst wounds back to the _Normandy_. Victus Sr. will decide what to do with them from there."

That was good. Some of these guys wouldn't last too long when the unit moved on. If it wasn't their injuries, it was the Reaper troops crawling all over the place. "You want me to make it clear he's going to finish this op?"

"I leave it up to your discretion," she answered, then thumped him on the shoulder before moving to talk to Garrus, who'd come to hover, his expression grim as he began to report wearily to Shepard. Shepard's ' _shit,_ ' exhale, and the planting of her fists on her hips indicated someone else had died while she was working on other things.

Vega positioned himself by the shuttle Shepard had indicated, leaning against it, his eyes scanning the terrain warily, ears pricked. Unfortunately, he couldn't hear much not related to the dying, wounded, or disheartened turian team.

This was _not_ his forte. What was he supposed to say to this kid? As he considered the wounded that Shepard and Garrus—now augmented by EDI and Liara—were starting to load into the shuttles, his mind drifted back to Fehl Prime, his unit picked off one by one.

This was different, of course, something truly beyond Tarquin's control. Shuttles got shot down and not everyone had Joker or Cortez to pilot their ride and make the best of a bad situation.

He found himself thinking back to the moment in which he could stand back and assess the aftermath of Fehl, thought about what had been said that upset him, what hadn't been said that he wished had been said…and with a voice that sounded suspiciously like Shepard, what would have _helped_ to have heard, regardless of whether or not he _liked_ what was being said.

Had Shepard ever lost a unit? He knew she'd lost friends—most marines did—but had she ever suffered such catastrophic losses? It wasn't something he dared go and ask her; he didn't know her well enough.

As he regarded her colleagues, he realized that Garrus had lost a unit. Javik certainly had. But Garrus was mission-essential in dealing with the turians and Javik was Javik, more likely to kick a man while he was down than get him back on his feet with fresh fight.

He wasn't sure _he_ could inspire fresh fight, but he did have a certain (if unpleasant) common ground with the kid, just as Shepard said. He suddenly found himself frowning at Garrus' back. He'd already observed that Shepard had a way of interacting well with a diverse group of people. She surely, _surely_ could have dispatched Garrus to keep an eye on Tarquin. In fact, Garrus was a better choice: the turian would understand another turian better than he would, and Garrus had that major-loss common ground.

So why him? It was not a complaint, but a philosophical question.

He knew Shepard well enough to know that she rarely did anything without a reason—usually she had two or three. Ns, he was learning, were complicated layers of thought and planning.

So, he was specially picked for this. Why? It seemed important that he understand it. Sometimes he had the oddest feeling that Shepard was trying to imprint something or other on him. This was one of those times: a lesson in something, and he had to figure out what, exactly, that something was.

Maybe it really was as simple as the fact that, of everyone here, he was the most similar to Tarquin. Could it really be that simple?

He pinched the bridge of his nose. No. There was something _he_ was supposed to walk away with.


	261. Stabilize

Tarquin Victus was glad he'd managed to slip off. Not that he could, or would, go far, but the urge that had plagued him from the moment he realized his gamble had been the wrong choice had finally won out over iron will. As soon as Captain Shepard disappeared into her shuttle to contact his father, Tarquin seized the opportunity he needed.

As soon as he was out of sight, he vomited until all he could do was heave violently.

Finally, the spasms passed, leaving him to lean on the sheltered side of one of the shuttles, looking at the contents of his stomach and fighting down another wave of nausea. This wasn't supposed to be how things went. His father had trusted him, and look at what had come of it: two thirds of his men dead, the bomb still in place and active, Cerberus still crawling all over the place…

He didn't know how his father would feel about this operation being bailed out by a human…but Tarquin found he didn't care as long as there was some competent leadership to replace his own.

He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he would just wake up and find out this had all been pre-mission nerves. A bad dream.

But the smell of his own exhalations, the shakiness, the burning along his esophagus, the headache, it all told him flatly, coldly, that this was no nightmare. It was the wreck of a mission gone wrong. And it was all his fault.

He forced himself to stand up straight, then fished a cloth out of his web gear, wiping his mouth then taking a mouthful of water from his canteen, rinsing and spitting.

His head ached, his neck muscles felt tense. And he had to go back out there and face his men. The men who blamed him, rightly, for the loss of their comrades. Turians prepared to lose friends and teammates in war…but it was still a shock when it actually happened. _Especially_ under circumstances like these.

He edged back into view to see the human squad leader bantering easily as she helped Nadia into a shuttle, aided by Vakarian who exuded total confidence. They must, he decided, be deciding who was too wounded to carry on and who was still mission-fit.

"The Captain says to take what time you need to pull it together." The voice was calm and a little too full of understanding.

Tarquin jumped, resisting the urge to reach for his pistol, despite the amiable tone. Jumpiness was not a laudable trait in a turian and he couldn't afford to give into it. He doubted the Captain would take it kindly if he riddled her man with slugs.

The Captain called this man 'Lieutenant' on at least one occasion. The Lieutenant leaned against the shuttle, studiously not looking at him. He held his rifle loosely in his arms, but seemed content that—as far as war zones went—this one was reasonably safe.

Should he find it comforting that they were of comparable rank? That he wasn't being watched by someone like Vakarian or the Captain herself? "I'm alright," Tarquin managed.

"Course you are." It wasn't a true vote of confidence, but Tarquin thought that the marine wasn't going to question the assertion.

"I take it you have orders from the Captain?"

"Captain's not giving orders. This is your op. She's just here to help," the marine shrugged, as if he was quite comfortable with the idea.

Tarquin's brow plates contracted. "Are you sure she wouldn't like to handle it herself?"

The marine finally turned to look at him. "If I know her, she'll want a private word with you once she's got the troops squared away. She's sending the most injured back to the Normandy, where the Primarch'll redirect them."

Tarquin nodded, feeling more than a little regretful over the situation and more than a little grateful that his father was referred to as 'the Primarch' rather than 'your father.' "That's good."

It would have been easier for the more competent senior officer to take over.

The marine did not force conversation, merely watched as the Captain had a few rather stern words with one of the less wounded turians. They could all smell, Tarquin thought, proper leadership.

"Beating yourself to a pulp isn't going to help," the marine finally noted.

"I'm not beating myself to a pulp," Tarquin growled, aware that it was a lie.

"I'm calling bullshit on that one." The marine looked over at him again, something like understanding on his comparatively soft features. "Lost my unit on Fehl Prime. A person's gotta have ice water in their veins to not beat themselves up after something like this." He gestured to the general area.

Tarquin now understood why the Captain dispatched this particular soldier to 'keep him company.' He ought to be irritated, he felt sure of it, but instead he found it comforting. "Pretty bad? I mean—" Stupid question.

"Collector attack. Cerberus was involved, too."

"Oh…guess you have good reason to hate them, then." Now that he was talking, he couldn't seem to shut up.

"It's a little more complicated than hate, anymore," the marine admitted. "Most days I just want them wiped off the galactic stage."

Tarquin nodded, aware that 'and I want to help do it' went without saying. It was strange to hear, since Cerberus _claimed_ to be pro-humanity. "They're definitely making life difficult."

"They _excel_ at it. Lucky us, though: most of them have the brains of iguanas."

Tarquin wasn't sure what iguanas were, but clearly they were something fairly unintelligent. "I'm Tarquin Victus." He knew the marine knew already, but he said it anyway, holding up his hand in greeting.

Smiling, the marine returned the gesture. "James Vega."

"Good to know you." And it was, Tarquin decided. At any rate, he didn't feel like throwing up anymore. He didn't feel ready to lead again, but it was comforting knowing that someone here understood sideways missions.


	262. Rebellion

"Alright," Shepard said to the huddle, positioned around the area map EDI had managed to produce after several careful flybys with the _Normandy_. "We've got crap terrain and Cerberus is still all over the bomb. On the up side, they've got the Reapers pushed back out of this area."

EDI cued a green circle.

"That's no mean feat," Liara noted. "I'd give them credit if they weren't making so much trouble."

Garrus chuckled. At one point, Liara would have been sincere in that thought; now, she was just as upset as the rest of them. Sheltered in the ruins the ground team had come through, with two teams keeping watch on the two most likely ways for trouble to come, the time was now for making plans.

As a man who had had ops go horribly wrong with staggering consequences, he could feel some leniency towards Tarquin. Shit happened, and Tarquin had had one of those ops; what really made it worse was that his father was known for pulling risky ops and the fact that Tarquin had one go bad would mess with an already skewed opinion of the kid.

He was with Shepard: Tarquin had to finish this op himself or he'd never amount to any kind of officer. The failure and having someone take the burden away would cripple him. It's what he would have advised had she not seen the necessity herself.

"Alright, Lt. Victus—level with me."

Garrus didn't smile, but he wanted to as Shepard pinned Tarquin with a squinty-eyed look.

"Ma'am?" Tarquin shifted.

"Tell me about this bomb. The _truth_." And she continued to glare at him.

"…my father…"

"Primarch Victus is aboard the Normandy and this isn't his operation," Shepard answered without heat. "You can't be Adrien's son right now—you need to be these men's lieutenant and your Primarch gave you a job to do. Spill: what is it about this bomb that this team needs to know?" She indicated that she meant her team more than the Ninth Platoon—what was left of it.

Tarquin shifted, a noise of unease none of the non-turians could hear making his throat tremble. Finally, he sighed. "The bomb isn't Cerberus'—but I know the Primarch wouldn't have told you it was because it isn't." He nervously dragged a talon along the soft skin along his jaw. Garrus could see him buttoning up the fact that the Primarch was his father, putting it aside and compartmentalizing the facts so he could cope with an op gone wrong and unconventional aid from an unexpected quarter.

The Primarch wasn't the one on the ground with people shooting at him. These soldiers were volunteers and deserved the truth…even if he would be reamed for it later.

Garrus approved…but kept in mind that he was not the model turian Tarquin was expected to be.

Shepard nodded. Turians could be counted on to lie by omission rather than lie outright; it was just their people's quirk. In fact, Garrus could remember Victus not actually saying the bomb was of Cerberus' construction; he said they had _possession of it_ , so Cerberus was granted ownership of it.

His stomach dropped as he surveyed the ruin they were in. This was Tuchanka, the krogan homeworld. And turians were big into fallback and contingencies. He groaned, a pitch only Tarquin could hear.

"Yeah…" the kid nodded, looking at him and nodded. "It's turian…"

"It's _what_?" Shepard asked, appalled.

"This surprises you?" Javik asked.

"As I think about it…not really," Shepard admitted. "Alright. Why do you have a bomb on Tuchanka."

"I swear it's not a recent thing!" Tarquin added hastily. "It's a relic of the Krogan Rebellions. The Primarch wants us to deactivate it and dismantle it. He said it had to be now…I think he'd have done it even without Cerberus crawling all over the place…a goodwill gesture, you know. Come clean about something he didn't have to, strictly speaking."

"How did Cerberus obtain information about this bomb, turian?" Javik demanded.

Tarquin flinched. "I don't know. Something like this would be classified at the highest levels for obvious reasons."

"Makes sense—those were bad times. Desperate. If the krogan got uppity again, put them down hard," Garrus pointed out. He admired the plan, however awkward and embarrassing it was now. He thanked the Spirits that it was Wrex in charge. Wrex might blow a gasket, but he wouldn't declare war or a fresh blood feud on the spot (and try to follow through).

"Then you should not have wasted time with sterility plagues," Javik frowned, crossing his arms.

" _Thank_ you, gentlemen," Shepard broke in. "We can discuss ethics, ways and means later. You're trained to disarm this thing?" she redirected to Tarquin.

"Disarm and dismantle—a team of engineers briefed all of us how to do it, since the tech's so old. Fortunately, it was meant for easy _use_ should the order to use it ever come," Tarquin began, his omnitool flaring to show them a holo of the bomb. With familiarity came confidence, indications that he really was good officer material… _if_ people would stop comparing him to his father and trying to compare the achievements of a young man with those of a Relay-314 Incident veteran.

Victus wasn't going to flay Tarquin alive for telling Shepard all this, Garrus felt sure. He approved the (eventual) honesty, and knew that Shepard would run interference for the young officer, let the Primarch wear himself out dealing with her until the worried father was all that was left.

Tarquin didn't know that though, so more power to him.

"What kind of damage are we talking?" Shepard asked, once Tarquin explained how the thing needed to be disarmed—dismantling could come later.

Tarquin shook his head. "Too much." There was so much weight in his tone that a nasty silence descended over the group. "Which is why we've got to stop it. I'll send your team instructions for disarming it…and I recommend a two-pronged assault."


	263. Warhawk

Javik glared at the young turian. His father should be flayed without mercy for being such a fool; the boy should be flayed within an inch of his life for such failure. How much time had been wasted on this little rock? The krogan were a decimated people—how much help could they really be?

And if the Primarch was such a fool as to withhold aid to the galaxy at large over such a trivial thing as _his_ world imperiled—as if it were the only one—then he should be killed, his corpse stepped over, and the new Primarch given the opportunity to learn from his predecessor's mistakes.

Garrus' views of war might be naïve, but they were probably better suited to the war at hand that this Victus primitive.

Javik glared at Shepard who, intercepting it glared right back and made a cutting motion across her throat. 'Don't be part of the problem.' He promptly turned around so she wouldn't have to _see_ his expression…because he'd be damned if he'd change it somply to convenience her. She had far too many people who were content to convenience her. That couldn't be good for a wartime leader. Sometimes he wondered how many of her crewmen had wills of their own…

…but only sometimes, which told him something he would rather not admit to.

Tuchanka was a baked and blasted rock, the air full of dust which prompted most of the team to wear breathers. He was beginning to wish he had, but it was hardly the worst world he'd ever been on.

The krogan were foolish, and this decimated world was their own fault.

"Don't mind him—he's not happy unless he's in a fight," Shepard noted louder than necessary, just to make sure he heard her.

"I am Prothean," he answered sourly over his shoulder. "I'm never happy."

Shepard's answer was a varren-like grin, but she didn't comment on whatever idea was fermenting in that tormented brain of hers. He knew why he was so agitated and it had nothing to do with turian, krogan, Tuchanka, Cerberus, failures of leadership or massive bombs.

He'd dreamed about the Ruffie dog again. 'Reading' Shepard as he had turned out to be foolish: her mind was so twisted and fragmented, was so full of things not organic to it, that it resembled a splintery piece of wood. Run a hand across it and splinters came away along with the information concerning 'wood.' This resulted in periodic dreams, fragments of memory all of which seemed to be soft, precious things.

It would have been easier to deal with her nightmares, her bad memories. It was harder to deal with things like the Ruffie dog, or the so-proud parents or the tiny brother she'd held in her arms and who gurgled at her.

Javik shook himself, shoving the memories aside. They clashed with his own and created dissonance which left him in a truly foul mood. He had yet to ascertain why—or if he had, he'd put the thought somewhere and forgot where it was so he would have to figure it out all over again.

But later, because the half an ear he'd directed at the planning caught everything and lost nothing.

"Alright. We've got a plan," Shepard announced, pushing to her feet. "Get your men ready. We'll pack into the second shuttle."

Tarquin balked and Javik resisted the urge to stomp over and give him a good shake. Such hesitation was unbecoming in a leader and guaranteed to be suicidal for his men. "Captain…I can ask them to go, but look at them."

Javik glanced over his shoulder. The turians did look beaten down, resentful. One would think they would be smart enough to take their resentment out n Cerberus, since killing their commanding officer was off the table.

"I'm in this, I'll do what I came to do. But they don't _want_ to…" Tarquin gulped, giving off a high-pitched warble Javik was sure only he and the turians could hear. "How can I ask them to do this when they don't have it in them?"

"This is the hardest kind of thing to ask your men," Shepard answered in that calm, bracing tone. "But they signed on for this, just like you did. The option to just quit isn't there."

Tarquin studied her, his mandibles trembling. "They'll listen to you."

" _You're_ their commanding officer," she retorted with far less sympathy. "It's your job to make them want to finish this. Get to it, _Lieutenant_."

With that, Shepard joined Javik, surveying the glimpse of landscape their position afforded. "Anything interesting on the horizon?"

"Your turian will fail. You should have done as he suggested and taken control of his men," Javik answered flatly.

"Garrus might just agree with you."

"That is surprising."

"For practical, short-sighted reasons and he knows that," Shepard appended.

"What good is looking forward as you do when doing so might get you killed today?"

"I have to believe that there is going to be a tomorrow. If I don't, how can I ask anyone else to?"

"If you don't take more care with 'today' then 'tomorrow' is moot."

"What would you have done?"

It unnerved him the way she asked that. She always seemed to when he clashed with her opinions, directives, and ethics.

 _Ethics_ , at a time like this.

"I would have killed your Primarch until we found someone wiser. I would have flayed this Tarquin within an inch of his life to teach him better. I would have assumed control—" Shepard tensed, but he didn't think she knew she had. It was the tension of someone braced against something in bad memories. "—of this unit and given them a choice: die now, or complete their mission and perhaps live through it. Or better yet, I would have stopped with getting a new and reasonable Primarch. Your Garrus, perhaps."

"I _knew_ you liked someof us."

He hated _her_ at that moment.


	264. The Cost of Victory

Tarquin Victus' insides all clenched, squeezing painfully. He didn't need to be able to read whatever basic shared language humans needed to understand what the flashing numbers meant. All he knew was that he had between ten seconds and one minute to disarm the bomb.

And his hands were shaking so badly…

"They got to the trigger mechanism!" he meant to shout it, but it came out as a whisper. "Captain! Cover me!" There was no time for real explanations. Suddenly, his mind snapped, like something in his neck that slipped back into place when he needed to crack it. Everything was hyper clear, all real distractions muted to the point of peripheral data, easy to process, while the overarching idea became sharply delineated.

Firstly, he locked out the console. No one would be fiddling with it; that was just procedure.

Secondly he regarded the bomb, the engineers' explanations, hammered into him and his crew over and over again, playing back in his mind as if he was back in that classroom hearing it yet again.

Thirdly came action. There was only one thing to do: disarm it manually. He could do that and if he was fast he could do it in practice as well as in theory.

He didn't look back to see if she'd tried to ascertain he situation or herself. "Acknowledged!" she barked back, her voice cutting across the exchange of gunfire, of explosions, of crashing shuttles.

He'd heard differing views over the years as to whether humans made good soldiers or not. Personally, he always felt that comparing other species with turians when discussing soldiering was stupid—like comparing him with his father. They were just two different fruits.

He could vouch, however, that this team—considered human because their commanding officer was— _excelled_ at property damage. He'd heard at least two Cerberus shuttles crash so far (one with its full complement of fighters still aboard), much to the amusement of the men he'd left to back her. Those crashes alone had done more than his attempts at appealing to their pride, making them _want_ to go on—as Shepard put it. It was different than with his father, who would simply have told them to get on their feet and follow him…and they would have, respected war hero that he was.

Tarquin shook himself as he cleared the distance between the terminal and the spiderlike framework supporting the bomb. The size of it had been mind-boggling, and he already knew it was big, knew the scale of bomb versus the turian figures the briefing showed it against.

Still, seeing it in person was different. How much of the planet could that kill? And he knew that the Kelphic Valley was the closest thing to a major population center that Tuchanka had. His father had cautioned him early on 'don't think of them as krogan—think of them as people.' He knew the idea had been somewhat repellant to his father but now he understood why his fa—the Primarch—had said it.

His men had asked why they should die for a few krogan, and found the idea of doing so distasteful at best.

But looking at it through a species-neutral filter and all he could see was more than a quarter (as he envisioned it) of a population of civilians—mostly females and children, though the turian in him knew this shouldn't matter—being wiped out for something they had no part in.

They might never know it was coming, but still…and his people were responsible.

If he screwed up, again, _he_ would be responsible.

So he wouldn't screw up.

He hit the rungs that would let him climb the bomb's chassis at a run, altogether skipping the first several rungs and for a few moments pulling himself up by arms alone in his sheer desperation— _determination_ —to get himself up to the triggering mechanism.

He wanted to look back, since the sound of gunfire was quieter with distance, to see how everyone was doing…

…but he had no idea how many seconds that timer had. More than twenty. Thirty? He needed to be faster. Fortunately, turians were designed for speed, and he'd always found running to be a pleasant recreational activity.

The railing connecting the legs to the body was never meant to be traversed on foot, but he managed to do it, wobbling only a little and that because of the high Tuchanka winds. At least they were higher without all the rubble and debris to mitigate them. His plates were letting off heat that was as much from nerves as from temperature.

He reached the trigger's housing as a particularly stiff gust of wind hit him. He crashed to his knees as it did so to ensure he stayed in a position to work freely. The housing came off quickly, and he noted as a by-the-by thing that his hands had finally stopped shaking.

It didn't matter though, because the bomb began shaking as old machinery started whirring to life…

The screech of metal told him something had been buried for far too long. He checked the various anchors, found the faulty one.

He hissed at it, a very improper expression but there was no curse he could think of strong enough to use to consign that stupid malfunctioning anchor—an anchor that was going to decimate a population—to the deepest darkest abyss any species had ever believed in.

He threw himself at it before the thought finished, scrambled over the primary cover, down the short ladder and scrambled down to the panel, which he wrenched free so vehemently that the hinges tore.

Great.

The anchor was almost free. Its inner workings had simply hung up at the last moment, which was good for him and the current necessity. An easy fix.

He grabbed the pin-like protrusion, waited for the anchor to try again for that moment when the pin would slip free if yanked out by hand…and yanked.


	265. Burning the Past

Vega would never admit it—partly because no one would ever ask him—but he enjoyed the freedom to tag along after Shepard. He figured if she didn't want him, she'd tell him to take hike. However, she always seemed aware of his presence and never told him to leave. So he stayed and he watched.

There was more to an N, he was learning, than being a good soldier. There was more to it than being an exceptional soldier. Soldiering was only part of what made an N.

In addition to showing him some of the weirdest, exotic, or inaccessible locales in the galaxy he got to watch shit like _this_.

"We couldn't risk another galactic war with the krogan!" Victus began, more appealing than angry, as Vega and Shepard came into earshot. Still armored and armed, Shepard made a beeline up to the briefing room where Victus remained during the mission.

"The Genophage wasn't enough?!" Wrex snarled, thumping a fist on the war room's table with so much force that the table should have shattered.

"Aw shit," Shepard breathed. "I think war's about to be declared."

Yeah. It did look that way. "Good luck, Lola."

"Thanks."

"You had to plant a bomb on my planet?" the krogan hissed, his red eyes narrowing as Shepard swung into the room.

Neither the turian nor the krogan paid any attention to her arrival. Shepard herself waited in the doorway for a moment, seeming to vibrate with tension as she took stock of the situation, the participants, and the—ambiance?—of the room.

"The decision was made hundreds of years ago," the Primarch argued. Vega had to give the man points: he didn't act like he had weight hundred pounds of pissed off krogan glaring murder with pointy objects in his direction.

"A BOMB!" Wrex exploded, taking two steps towards the Primarch who took several steps back and put the table between them. "Not just some bunker-buster in a city but a fucking planet-killer!"

It _had_ been a pretty big bomb.

"So much has changed—"

Wrex pounded the table again and came around the table. The Primarch, again, moved to keep distance—and the table—between them. "Not enough for you to admit to the bomb, you cowards!" Wrex snarled, pointing a stubby finger at the Primarch as if he could impale the turian with it.

"Enough!" Shepard barked, stepping into the room and putting herself between the turian and the krogan.

Kirrahe's words on Sur'Kesh came back to Vega with new meaning: _Your standoff with Urdnot Wrex is legend within STG_.

A movement caught Vega's eye. He glanced back to see a grim-looking Garrus join him. The turian crossed his arms, mandibles waving vaguely as he glared from Wrex to the Primarch and back, as if he couldn't decide whose side he was on (or who he was more pissed off with).

That was okay, because Vega knew whose side Garrus was—would always be—on: Shepard's.

"We cannot afford to let the past rip us apart! If we work together we have a chance. Otherwise we die separately." Once Shepard had both men's attention, she took a deep breath and let it out, resting her hands lightly on the table as if her own composure could bring sanity and calm back into the discussion. "Primarch, you had a planet-killer on Tuchanka. Thanks for the heads-up, by the way." Not even an angry Wrex could miss the cutting derision.

Vega wondered if she was going to throw Tarquin's death at Victus or use it to appease Wrex. It seemed a little…inappropriate…to just drag the news out there without warning.

"And Wrex, before you get to snarling too hard you would have done the same damn thing. You know you would."

"Shepard—" Wrex began.

"It is _over_ ," Shepard said firmly. "A lot of turians died today to fix this mistake. They wanted to quit. They wanted to stick to the old 'we hate krogan because we've always hated krogan' line. But they _didn't_. Because they had orders from _him_." She gestured sharply to Victus. "If you always do what you always did, you'll always get what you always got. If you want to see change between krogan and turians, it has to start _here_!" She smacked the table for emphasis.

There was a silence so charged with energy that it made Vega fizzle.

"Alright, Shepard, you've made your point," Wrex snarled.

"Yes, Captain," the Primarch agreed. His eyes skated over Garrus and Vega, and Vega knew he was looking for his son. "Clan Chief Urdnot, I offer you the assurances of the Hierarchy—and my own personal assurances—that there are no further sabotage plans orchestrated or enacted by us against your homeworld."

Wrex grunted, nodding once.

"Thank you," Shepard declared, taking a deep breath as some of the tension began to leech out of the air.

"We have stronger enemies to face. So let's get facing them." With that, Wrex stomped off, pushing past Garrus and Vega, both of whom moved easily, neither of whom spoke.

"Garrus, Vega—you did good. Get mopped up. Primarch, I need a word with you in private. If you'll follow me?"

He already knew, Vega decided. He already knew what she was going to tell him.

"What do you think about all this?" Vega asked Garrus, once Shepard and the Primarch were gone.

"I think it's just one more complication in a knot of complications that makes you want to say 'why didn't we fix this earlier so we didn't have to fix it now?' On the one side, I can see the logic—those were desperate times. The krogan get uppity we put them down hard. On the other side…" he shook his head. "I wouldn't see another side if I hadn't known Shepard and Wrex. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with what she's trying to do…but I'll support her."

Vega nodded. Garrus had summed up his feelings on the matter perfectly.


	266. Twist the Knife

Primarch Victus knew, from the moment his son failed to appear ready to brief him on a successful mission, that Tarquin had paid for the mission's success with his life. There had been something in the way Shepard's knuckles had blanched, in the way her tone of controlled savagery had wavered, when saying turian lives bought victory.

He had known long before she asked to speak privately with him that his son was dead.

It was a relief, in some degree, to see that Shepard had managed to secure the remains of Tarquin's unit—too few, he thought, far too few. "Captain, if I might have a word with my men?" he asked, taking in the hunch of shoulders, the weight put on the table instead of being supported by good posture, the buzz of distress outside human hearing range.

She nodded her understanding. She was a good officer; he could see why people—people of all species—were willing to follow her lead.

"I'll be here," she indicated a room marked life support before entering it.

Victus regarded the survivors, trying to maintain the role of 'officer' rather than fall into the role of 'grieving father.' His order had sent all of them out into the field; the father could not possibly be allowed to show.

His son was dead…

…but these men weren't, and they looked absolutely battered—not just their armor, but their souls. He had to do what he could for them first and foremost. His own concerns came later.

His son was dead. He had to take care of the living. It was his job as a commander, as Primarch, as the highest ranking turian officer available.

He followed the forms, gave the speeches, made assurances, did what he could to patch morale and lift sagging spirits. Seeing that they had had time to take the grime off much of their armor and were now nibbling on decent dextro food did him some good.

He didn't ask about his son. Right now, he was the soldier.

Later, he might approach them as the father.

Shepard waited in life support, sitting at the table there, her elbows on it, her hands clasped, her head bowed as if in prayer. She heard him enter and got to her feet, her bright eyes locking on his.

"Thank you, for having my men seen to." It had to have been Vakarian who handled the logistics. Shepard hadn't had time to change out of her armor, but she was the sort of officer who would make sure that strangers aboard her ship were looked after.

"They've had a rough few days." She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Primarch—"

"He's dead," Victus finished softly, knowing she couldn't hear the undulating of grief in his voice. Or maybe it was because she couldn't hear it that it manifested in the first place. "I…figured as much when he wasn't with you and didn't arrive with Vakarian."

His boy. His beautiful boy.

He wasn't permitted the question parents liked to ask: _why my child_? He already knew: because he put more faith in the loyalty of blood than in the practicality of experience.

"Tell me."

"He made a choice between two ways to land and picked the wrong one. You know how it is: damned if you do, damned if you don't. He and his men got pinned; my team landed and got them unpinned. You should know…he led his men. I didn't do his job for him. He rallied them and got them moving when they thought they had nothing left to give—and they were pretty pissed off with him. Daddy's little boy—you know how it is."

"I do know," Victus agreed. The Hierarchy did not look favorably on nepotism, and he didn't doubt that the men would have smelled it. Tarquin was a young officer with virtually no time in combat. It was a hard lesson in trust, in the keeping of secrets and of the timing for breaking one's silence: if he had trusted Shepard from the beginning…

…Tarquin might have lived.

It hurt to think it and he kept the thought in the forefront of his mind: he tried to be an officer while thinking like a father. For the first and last time, he had tried to be the officer and the father at the same time…and it had gone so horrifically, disastrously wrong.

"He didn't hesitate, you know," Shepard offered. She didn't look at him, and it struck Victus that she also harbored regret—regret without blame. "The instant he knew direct action was needed, he was off like a shot. All he cared about was the mission objective…which was to save lives. I was honored to know him."

It hurt that she didn't point out his failings in this endeavor. Perhaps she would later—he would almost welcome hearing how badly he'd failed from someone else—but right now she was speaking to a father who had lost his only child.

"No one really comes in here," Shepard said. "In case you need to be alone for a while. Take however long you need. Putting together a plan of action for the next phase is going to take some time." With that, she withdrew from the room.

He wasn't the first father to lose a son to this war, to the Reapers. He wouldn't be the last. He knew it all too well.

Victus dropped into the nearest chair, finding himself settling much as Shepard had been when he entered: hands clasped at his brow, forehead resting against them. The hum of the drive core seemed a mournful counterpoint to his sorrow, evidenced in the thin whine human ears would not pick up, even if there had been any humans immediately present.

His eye coating thickened as he closed them.

Tarquin, his boy, his precious boy, was dead.

And he had no one to blame but himself.


	267. Waste

Nadia Hadrus sighed inwardly as she watched the line of turians spill out from the elevator. Rhere was no sign of Tarquin Victus among them.

Well, arguably he might have been with Shepard. She was probably on her way to let Primarch Victus know the job was done, the planet saved, the bomb a danger only to the Hierarchy's pride. But she knew very well, when Tarquin didn't put his nose out of the elevator to check on the men currently filling the mess hall, it was because he wasn't going to. Because he couldn't.

Nadia leaned back in her chair, her leg suddenly more painful than it was a moment ago. It wouldn't be the first time she'd lost an officer. She felt sure it wouldn't be the last, either. That was one of the unseen costs of being a good NCO: sometimes you lost men, and sometimes you lost officers. The loss brought on the sense of isolation she learned to expect from losing a good officer, the sense of being surrounded by walking, talking timing mechanisms. Only she couldn't see how far the countdowns had progressed.

Not long after, Primarch Victus appeared.

Nadia composed her expression into one of blank neutrality, but in the confines of her own mind she glowered at the Primarch. Tarquin hadn't been ready. The wrong man for the wrong mission. Why, when he had such a capable Spectre shuttling him around, couldn't he have confided in her? Spectres knew how to keep their mouths shut. They had to: the missions they completed so quietly had to stay quiet even after completion, or the galaxy might never trust its leadership ever again.

She didn't really listen as Primarch Victus addressed his men, congratulating and praising them for finishing the job, for succeeding in the face of terrible odds. It was a decent enough speech, she supposed, but resentment burned in her guts as she listened.

What a waste of good potential. It was all she could see, as surely as if someone had written it out for her on a balance sheet: _Tarquin Victus, potentially good officer [deceased]_.

Such a waste.

The grumbling about Tarquin and his performance on this mission stopped when Primarch Victus appeared; when he left, it did not resume. By now, Tarquin's absence was obvious; those who had been there hadn't said anything either way, but now the team knew. If he had been alive, he would have been here. If he had been alive, he would have given that little speech himself, perhaps under the Primarch's watchful eye, but he would have done it.

Nadia sighed, sipping her drink for something to do. The water that was sweet a few minutes ago now tasted brackish and flat. Like the liquid equivalent of over-recycled air.

"You think," one of the others asked hesitatingly, "you think…he's just with the Spectre?"

"Nope," Nadia answered succinctly. She exhaled slowly, then finished her drink as eyes in the room jumped to her.

"He could be," the little private said, reproachfully.

Nadia cast her a baleful look. "He could be. But he's not. Or he'd have given that nice little speech himself."

The private—a first-termer, the baby on the team—swallowed hard, looking around at the others as if for confirmation or denial of this blunt sentiment.

Most of them were sensible enough to know that there was no point hoping. Those who knew for sure all looked at their cups, or their hands, or somewhere, anywhere, except at someone entertaining that kind of pointless hope.

Well, the object of ire being killed in action had a way of rebalancing people's moods and attitudes. Some might have wanted to kill him themselves back on Tuchanka…but once the heat of anger and the strain of a bad situation passed, people were usually more reasonable.

Nadia sighed again, regarding her empty cup. What a waste. And not a drop of turian liquor to drink his memory with.

"He was a good kid. Would have made a good officer, given time," one of the sergeants who had remained on Tuchanka with Tarquin observed wearily. "What do you think, Hadrus?"

Nadia nodded, keeping her tone somberly reflective. "He just needed time and experience. Let him grow into being a Victus."

"You remember that drill while we were on Taetrus?" one of the others asked bemusedly. "The alarms went off in the middle of the night, and there's Tarquin, boots in one hand, rifle in the other, bare-ass naked?"

"Why was he naked?" the little private asked.

"Why do you think?" one of the men asked loudly.

"Cause he was up all night agonizing over battle plans. I was on-duty," someone else cut in. "I heard Hadrus tell him to call it a night or she's give him a little bonk on the head."

"That's our Nadia! Gentle soul."

"He said he just wanted a scrub before going to bed," Reg, the turian who professed to being on duty, continued. "The alarms went off while he was getting himself squared away."

Several people tittered at this, expressions flicking suggestively for the benefit of the little private.

"Barring never wanting to think about Tarquin that way—thanks, Reg—I seem to remember _several_ people in about that state." Nadia cast Reg a pointed look.

Reg grinned, lacing his fingers behind his head. "I've got _nothing_ to be ashamed of."

"You're turian," Nadia responded casually. "Not much to see normally, is there?"

The unit laughed as Reg's expression fell.

Nadia let herself drift in and out of the conversation, which centered on either embarrassing moments involving poor Tarquin, or positive remembrances.

He might have lost his men's respect getting to the second objective, but he earned it back by getting the job done. It was all Nadia could have hoped for, barring Tarquin surviving to become the officer he could have been.

It was such a waste. Hardly the first she'd seen over the years, and probably not the last.


	268. Closure

Siu was seriously regretting his own burst of whatever-it-was as Sheffler walked him to the door of one of Ambassador Burns' underlings. Representative Osoba was Bilal's father…and Siu had drawn the short straw among his unit for telling Mr. Osoba the bad news.

Mr. Osoba had approached the unit several times…but as it turned out telling him his son was dead in the middle of a club was not as easy as one might think. Siu noticed that even he had hit the booze a little harder than he normally would have—not difficult since he was a teetotaler until that point.

He was sober now, though.

Of course, this short straw was rendered somewhat pointless when Sheffler, who at first opportunity had come for Bilal's dog tags as they'd been recovered, but the unit was adamant—one of their own should bring the news. Sheffler hadn't argued, merely nodded and said 'Short Straw Guy' should get a move on and come with him.

By now Siu felt sick, Bilal's tags cutting into his hand. Bilal and his father hadn't been on great terms; Mr. Osoba wanted his son in a safer line of work. Bilal wanted to take advantage of his own athletic inclinations and do some good in the galaxy. The Osoba family had been involved with politics for several generations, so Mr. Osoba expected his son to at least go to college and then into business; Bilal argued 'for this you don't need college' and the idea of being penned up in an office all day had been repugnant to him.

All these details he had learned since Bilal's death. Hence why the team drew straws; it was bad enough that a guy had to lose his kid. It was worse when he was likely to take his grief out on the poor sucker delivering the message.

"You sure you wanna to do this?" Sheffler asked, putting a hand on Siu's shoulder.

"I drew the straw," Siu answered much more calmly than he felt.

"Good man." With that, he knocked on the door, which opened a moment later to reveal Mr. Dominic Osoba, entrenched at his desk, looking haggard and in a bad mood.

Siu almost told Sheffler 'you want it? You do it!' but he felt it might be cowardly, since he'd been much less skittish in facing Cerberus. Of course, they could only shoot him. He wasn't sure what a vindictive politician might do. He could imagine though, and none of his imaginings were particularly pleasant.

"Gentlemen," Mr. Osoba announced, tempering both tone and expression into something less antagonistic, even as his shrewd eyes ran over Siu several times.

"Mr. Osoba, I'm Corporal Park Siu. I was operating with Bilal on Benning…" Because there was really no delicate way to say any of this, something Siu hadn't appreciated. "He saved a lot of lives…and wanted you to have these." That wasn't strictly true, but he didn't think Bilal would mind.

Bilal and his father were at odds, but Bilal hadn't expressed any animosity, just disappointment that parental understanding and communication was in short supply.

Siu held out the tags, then shuffled forward when Sheffler gave him a discreet elbow to do so.

This close, he could see how tired Mr. Osoba looked, the way the lines in his face seemed etched so much deeper. Oddly enough, he felt much less nervous at seeing the more human side of a politician—after all, since they weren't part of his day-to-day life the only impressions he had were the ones he formed from watching the news or listening to his peers.

Mr. Osoba took the tags, the silvery chain coiled in his soft palm—a palm that had never seen more than a couple days of hard work at a time. "Thank you, Mr. Siu," Mr. Osoba said, sounding genuine as he spoke. The battered but still silvery tags clinked as Mr. Osoba closed his fist over them. "This will…this means a great deal to his family. It's much more difficult not knowing."

"I liked Bilal," Siu offered hesitantly. "He always had time for the rookies, even the ones that weren't in his unit. Went out of his way if he saw you were having trouble and sorted you out so you could manage on your own the next time. He was always grinning and laughing about something."

"That does sound like Bilal," Mr. Osoba agreed, his lips pursing after he finished the last word. "It's good to know he'll be remembered fondly."

Fondly was one word: the unit had been motivated to stop Cerberus' shenanigans, however nervous so many of them had been about actually doing it. Now though, or once everyone got back on the wagon (or more on than they were now), he knew that the motivation had changed. They were going to make Cerberus die for their cause…in droves, if possible.

It took a few more minutes of answering questions, and a few more anecdotes, before the conversation petered out and Mr. Osoba thanked Siu and Sheffler for their time.

"I'm pulling you out of your unit," Sheffler announced, once they were outside the Embassy.

Siu stopped walking, gaping at him.

"Relax," Sheffler chuckled, holding up his hands. "I'm pulling you into mine. Keeps you between those turrets and your friends—and I've seen what you do to those turrets. Where'd you train?"

Siu relaxed marginally, remembering how easy it had ended up being to hack the Cerberus turrets and turn that gunfire to a good cause, or his assurance when securing civilians inside their homes: ' _any tech would have to be as good as me, or I'll have to lift the locking algorithm. The civvies can get out from the windows, but Cerberus won't be doing that to get in—they're huge._ '

"I'm self-taught, sir. You know, class geek, more interested in games than girls and better with databases than sports." It had been quite a burden.

"That's _just_ what I need."


	269. Blank Page

"You wanted to see me?" Shepard asked, as she entered the medbay.

Mordin, for once not hard at work, studied her thoughtfully. He could see the way her cheekbones protruded further than they should, the way eye sockets began to sink. She had a certain… _economy_ in her movements now, brisk and efficient, always ready to explode into action. She didn't _rest_ , simply _waited_.

Not good for wellbeing, but something to address later. "Yes, thank you. Cure is ready." He glanced at Eve, who seemed intent on watching Shepard's reaction.

"So quickly?" Shepard asked.

Mordin smiled at her, producing the four pressurized, reinforced liter tanks, each filled with golden liquid. Admitted, gold color was simply because humans needed important things to be visually distinct. Something in psyche tended to be disappointed when important things were neutral tones or, as in case of mostly-finished cure, simply clear. "Maelon's data invaluable," Mordin responded modestly.

"They're so small," Shepard marveled, peering at the liquid in the containers. "Is that really all it's going to take?"

"Said cure is _ready_ ," Mordin repeated with pardonable pride. "Ready to go when you are. Suggest calling crew meeting to discuss ways and means." With that, he loaded the canisters into carry-packs. They felt extremely heavy, far heavier than they should—but he knew that was all in his head. He was, after all, handling the solution to his own work, his people's work. Of course his mind would give the perception of additional weight.

Like humans needing exceptional color, Salarian psyche tended to assign important objects increased weight.

Shepard nodded slowly, then shook herself, accepting that the time had come. "EDI, can you round everyone up in twenty minutes?"

" _Of course_ ," EDI responded, before making the announcement over the comm.

"How are the turians?" Eve asked as Shepard moved for the door.

"Already shuttled off to the Citadel," Shepard answered. "The ones that survived to get here will live to fight another day. I'd appreciate it if you would join us at this meeting, Eve."

"Of course," Eve bowed her head as Shepard withdrew.

Mordin placed the cure canisters in one of the sealable cabinets, locking it behind him. He stared at the uninspired, light-toned panel. He was sure he'd made the cure correctly, accounted for every possible item of minutia. It _was_ a functional cure…

"I'm sure it will be alright, Doctor," Eve observed, as if apropos of nothing. She climbed off the padded medtable, stretching a little. "…thank you."

He wasn't sure exactly what she was thanking him for, or whether it was a blanket statement.

The doors hissed open to reveal Wrex.

" _Wrex_ ," Eve, with a frustrated snarl, picked up the nearest item to hand—fortunately pillow, not likely to do much damage—and flung it at Wrex's head. Wrex not quite fast enough to dodge, throwing up arms to deflect projectile, while Eve looked around for something else.

"Calm down, woman!" Wrex snarled…though sounding mildly aggrieved. "I just came to ask if I could walk you up to the meeting!"

Eve frowned at him, as if she didn't quite believe this. Wrex's pestering after her wellbeing never really improved, and the fussing had finally gotten to Eve's carefully guarded temper. Hence flying pillows. Krogan women not ones or mince words, apparently. "Why?" she finally asked, flatly.

"Because you've never _been_ up to the war room," Wrex answered, lowering his arms slowly.

Mordin busied himself with fidgeting in one of the cabinets. If this was representative of krogan re-integration of genders into single society…he worried for Tuchanka. More explosions might not matter to landscape, but still.

"Very well. Thank you," Eve finally yielded. "Are you coming with us, Doctor?"

"Momentarily. Still have few issues to straighten out. Go ahead," he answered without emerging from his cabinet.

He twitched when a large hand came to rest gently on his shoulder. Maybe it was additional thank you. Maybe reassurance that he didn't need to feel so nervous. Whatever it was, he appreciated the sentiment.

The doors hissed behind the two krogan, leaving Mordin alone in the medbay.

He sighed, closing the cabinet, watching from the window as Wrex and Eve made their way towards the elevator and out of sight. The mission wasn't over, but he still felt the creep of uncertainty, of emptiness the end of a task always left him with. This time though, the emptiness was different from other times, from the end of other projects. This one felt more final, as if he had finally done everything there was to do, seen everything there was to see, attempted everything that could be attempted.

It left him feeling distinctly wrong-footed, uneasy, even.

He re-opened the cabinet with the cure canisters, staring into its shadowy depths.

Of course he _had_ made it correctly. That was why he wanted in on the project to cure the females, why he leaked news of their survival and capture to Clan Chief Urdnot. It had to be him. Someone else might have gotten it wrong.

And he didn't think Dalatrass Linron had completely given up hopes of sabotaging this alliance. Would have to trust Shepard not to fall for any backroom deals the woman might come up with. Mordin knew people, and knew Linron was a weak ally. More than that, she didn't like or trust Shepard, which meant she was likely to be the kind of person who didn't _respect_ an ally…which meant she wouldn't respect any alliance or agreement made, because in her mind it wasn't made between _equals_.

He shut and locked the cabinet, just before EDI gently prompted him that he had five minutes to get to the war room.

Shepard knew people, too. Probably was aware that Linron lacked certain qualities necessary in an ally. Urdnot Wrex a much safer bet.

He didn't like leaving the cure unattended. "EDI, can you keep eye on cure? Don't expect Cerberus or STG interference on Normandy, but…" he shrugged.

" _Of course, doctor. I will dedicate a camera_."


	270. Ways and Means

"Okay," Shepard announced as Dr. Solus arrived. "Cure for the genophage planning start now." She cued a globe of Tuchanka to hover over the terminal.

Bakara regarded the globe as it rotated slowly. She was so close to being home; it sent nostalgic pains shooting through her hearts. She had left a captive; she returned among…companions.

"I can have a wing of turian pilots here in a couple of days," Victus offered, as soon as the meeting began. "You never know when air support might be handy, and I wouldn't want to leave anything to chance."

Wrex gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

"Thanks, that would be handy," Shepard translated, almost without thinking. "Mordin says the cure is ready."

"So quickly?" Victus asked, expression twisting with what Bakara supposed was surprise.

"Groundwork research thorough," Dr. Solus answered promptly. "Tests verified, have already synthesized universal immunity."

"He works well under pressure," Shepard grinned. "So, what do we need now?"

"Dispersal vector," came the quick reply. "Cure useless unless given to entire species."

"…you know how to do that, though?" Victus asked, sounding uneasy, as if not certain whether this was a major stumbling block or a minor one. He glanced from Shepard to Garrus and back as if asking for clarification.

"Can't create new infection strain," Dr. Solus mused aloud. "Groundwater? No, too slow. Voluntary inoculation? Too risky—population too scattered."

"Also, fear of needles," Vega muttered.

"Also, fear of salarian scientists," Shepard added in an undertone.

"Airborne, again population too scattered," Mordin continued, either not hearing or simply ignoring the half-joking commentary. "Unless…wait, _yes_!" he perked up, looking around the room. "Use Shroud. Facility produces global dispersion of air particles. 'Gift' from salarians to repair atmosphere of Tuchanka." He reached up to the map, zooming in until the three dimensional representation became a still-frame capture.

"Global dispersion of air particles…" Shepard repeated slowly.

Victus sighed. "Yes, it was the original dispersal vector for the genophage."

"I'd be careful who you tell _that_ to," Wrex growled.

Shepard sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose…but whatever she was thinking, she didn't give vent to it. "Mordin, do you think we can use the Shroud to disperse the cure, the way the turians dispersed the genophage?"

"Yes. Probable that original genophage strain still in Shroud facility." When Shepard cast him a questioning look, he added quickly, "To pattern adaptation for cure. Currently, cure not designed to be aerosolized. Take a bit of tweaking, not to worry. Hard part is over."

"I'm afraid it is not," EDI declared abruptly. "I've been tracking enemy forces as best I can. When you mentioned the Shroud, I focused there, specifically. There is a large Reaper signal currently at the Shroud."

"Like 'hold here, don't relinquish this spot' or 'hold here, I'm coming with reinforcements'?" Garrus asked uneasily.

Shepard suddenly snorted, covering her mouth and nose as if to pass it off as a sneeze. "Sorry," she rasped, still looking as if she would like to smile.

"Yes," Garrus answered testily. "Tali called it: I'm a nerd."

"So was my older brother," Shepard answered mildly. "Sorry, everyone. Reaper at the Shroud?"

"I believe it is simply there to secure a tactical strong point…and potentially to destroy the Shroud facility in the event such becomes necessary," EDI answered. "Give me two more minutes, and I will be able to give you an up-to-date image."

"We're still stealthed, right?" Vega asked nervously.

"Stealth drive is engaged. Engineer Adams would like to assure everyone that it is unlikely we will be visible, due to certain fluctuations and local weather anomalies."

A few moments later, a new image of a bug-like Reaper before a tower of distinctly salarian architecture appeared.

"Well…it's only the one," Garrus said, trying to sound hopeful and failing.

"It will be accompanied by shock troops," Javik added. "And then there is the question of how to kill a Reaper. So perhaps that unit of turian pilots will be more than a little useful."

"I'll give them their orders," Victus said, nodding as he stepped away from the table and into the communications suite.

"We're going to need krogan ground troops," Shepard declared as another image of the Shroud and Reaper, this time from another angle, joined the first, along with a scale at the corner to give an indication of actual size.

"As soon as the comm room clears out, I'll summon the krogan to the Hallows," Wrex said, redirecting the map to show the Hallows. EDI helpfully put several distance estimates between the Hallows and the Shroud on the display "They're pretty localized, so it shouldn't take long for the bulk of our warriors to get there."

"Do you have enough trucks to move everyone?" Shepard asked.

"Everyone? Probably not. But not everyone needs to get as far as the Shroud," Wrex answered, patting Shepard's shoulder. "I imagine the Reapers will wonder why the population is suddenly pulling into one place. They'd be stupid not to investigate—and when their investigators get run over, it's possible they'll be more interested in dealing with the majority than worrying about a little team slipping in the back. Sound familiar?" he leered.

Baraka nodded her agreement, not missing Shepard's sparkle of amusement. Well, Shepard would know about small unit tactics.

"Will need Eve," Dr. Solus said. "For last minute tweaking."

Bakara did not betray her unease. Dr. Solus had told her somewhat more about this cure than he'd told Shepard. But she agreed with his decision: she knew the risks to herself; Shepard didn't need to know, lest it interfere with her resolve. Bakara did not look forward to the final procedure, but to free her people for this curse? She would endure.

"Are you fit to travel, Eve?" Shepard asked.

"I am eager to be home again, Captain," Bakara answered, sensing the question was more to ascertain when she should be brought planet-side—with the first team, or 'when the coast was clear'—rather than as a result of sentiment.


	271. Follow-Up

It should not, Samantha Traynor knew, be so hard to take a plate, walk over to Shepard's Table (there she went, making it hard with capital letters!) and sit down. Shepard didn't bite. In fact, Shepard's open-door policy was so general it was actually a little intimidating.

Or maybe it was just that Shepard herself was intimidating, whether she meant to be or not. It wasn't that she was a Star of Terra recipient, or that she was a Spectre. It was just that she was so _strong_. Not necessarily physically, just… strong in general. Of course, she had to be, but that kind of strength could break other people whether it meant to or not, and people—as far as Traynor could tell—were aware of it on some level.

"Do you mind?" she made herself ask, touching the corner of the table.

Shepard looked up from her datapad, which had more of her attention than lunch did. "Sure, have a seat. I was starting to wonder if lower-deck rumors painted me as having something contagious. Crazy doesn't count," she added, more to herself than to Traynor.

Traynor chuckled, all the same.

Shepard put aside the datapad, pulling her lunch closer to her. Shepard didn't see it, but Traynor did: Palmer, who ran the galley, gave a sigh of relief to see the whole meal being eaten.

"Something on your mind?" Shepard asked after a few minutes of silence.

Lots of things, but Traynor had no intention of discussing why this table was so unfrequented, unless the ground crew or Victus were down here. With the mission to Tuchanka looming, the ground team's appetites did seem to have dropped off a bit. With Shepard's somewhat sporadic eating habits, it was hard to tell if the nerves affected her at all. Probably not: Ns probably learned to eat—and keep it down—under stress.

"We all heard what Lt. Victus did," Traynor answered, slightly at random.

"Please don't say he died well," Shepard sighed wearily, running a hand through her hair. "I've already argued that with Javik."

It was the loss that bothered her, which was probably why she didn't want to hear it. Preventable losses did seem to be a thing with Shepard.

"Actually," Traynor continued, unoffended, "I was going to say, I don't think I could…huh." To her own surprise, she found she couldn't finish the sentence.

"What?" Shepard asked, eyebrows arching.

She really did have striking eyes. Neither green nor blue, but intensely vivid.

"I was going to say, I didn't think I could do that."

"But?" A faint smile played around Shepard's mouth, as if she really did understand why people said things like that…even if she never had. 'I could never do that' wasn't something one heard from Shepard, no matter how monumental the task, no matter how desperate the struggle. Then again, Shepard also had to live with the pressure that if _she_ couldn't do something…no one could.

It must be hard. Terribly hard.

Traynor considered for another moment, asking herself if she had been in Lt. Victus' position, if she were faced with the choice between the lives of millions—including people she knew and liked—and her own…would she have made a different choice? Or would she have been so hyped on adrenaline, so aware of the consequences of failure to act, that she wouldn't have really thought about it, would simply _act_ and do what needed to be done? "But I was wrong," she answered quietly, before glancing back at her CO.

Shepard cared about her crew, took thought about the guests the Normandy entertained. It showed especially in the way she'd encouraged the crew and the various guests to interact, so no one was stuck among strangers unless it was by choice. It wasn't something one ever really thought about, the motivation for facing such incredible odds, such insane operations. The simple fact was that Shepard cared about a great many people, even people she'd never met. She cared that they should be able to live their lives—with all the risks inherent—without the threat of Cerberus and Reapers disrupting day-to-day normalcy.

"Being here, watching you…you've shown me what it really means to serve in the Alliance," Traynor finished, slightly embarrassed but determined to admit the truth.

A smile played around Shepard's mouth, one of satisfaction. "You're a good officer, Traynor," she said simply, sipping her coffee. "I'm glad you finally realize it."

"Thanks," Traynor nodded, picking at her meal. Then, more to break the somber mood settling over the table than for any other reason, "Not that I'm volunteering for bomb-jump duty or anything. I'd suggest sending someone in armor for that."

Shepard laughed at this, unsurprised, then waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. Stick to what you're good at. You keep catching details in the data, and those of us with a penchant for kicking in doors will take care of the rest."

It was still a relief to hear 'play your strengths.' "I can do that."

Shepard's datapad beeped. "Do you mind?" she asked, after glancing at the sender, expression uneasy.

"Of course not."

Shepard opened the message, read it, her expression opening into something hard to read.

"Bad news?" Traynor asked hesitantly.

"No," Shepard answered as if trying to convince herself. "No…there was a young woman I knew, she was in a special care facility. Apparently, the facility's moving its charges somewhere else. A place called Sanctuary."

"I've never heard of it, but I'll keep an ear to the ground for you, if you like."

"I think they'll have affected the move before I can get back. That's why one of the caretakers was writing to me."

It struck Traynor why Shepard looked so disappointed: she wouldn't get to say goodbye.

-J-

On the Citadel, Dr. Richinson hoped and prayed that moving Talitha before the Cerberus storm descended—he knew it had to be coming—would keep a weapon against Shepard out of Cerberus' hands.


	272. Stonewall

"Dalatrass," Shepard smiled to hide her disquiet. "Come to join the war effort?"

The Dalatrass minced no words. " _Captain, we know you've reached Tuchanka. By now, I imagine Dr. Solus has proposed utilizing the Shroud facility_."

"You're well-informed."

" _It is the only viable course of action open to you_." The Dalatrass took a deep breath, " _Captain, you can't allow your misguided sympathy for the krogan cloud your judgment._ "

"Is that what this is about?"

" _Do you honestly believe, in your heart of hearts, that curing the Genophage will end in lasting peace_?"

"Peace, lasting or otherwise, won't be a fond dream unless we stop the Reapers first. This is what it takes."

" _You didn't answer my question_ ," the Dalatrass smiled.

"It's my polite way of saying it's not a matter for discussion."

" _It's good to see you have doubts_."

"Every plan has its risks. As Victus so notably said, I'd rather have a grateful ally than a vengeful enemy. This is a time for change. You don't bleed and die alongside others without forming some kind of bond."

" _Shepard, you don't know the krogan. My people do. We uplifted them specifically for their violent nature. Another war is inevitable._ "

"Then maybe you should reconsider plans to uplift the yahg," Shepard answered mildly. "Or reign those in. I'm sure you wouldn't have anything to do with a fiasco waiting to happen like that would be."

There was a moment of silence as the two women regarded one another.

" _If I had something to say, would I be wasting my breath saying it to you_?" the Dalatrass asked sourly.

"It depends entirely on what you have to say."

" _Years ago our operatives sabotaged the Shroud facility to ensure what you're planning could never be done. Dr. Solus will detect the malfunction and repair it. But if you ensure that he doesn't then the cure's viability will be altered just enough so that it fails. No one will notice the change_."

"Not in the immediate future, at least," Shepard answered, crossing her arms. "Aside from that, Mordin wouldn't stand for it."

The Dalatrass shrugged. " _How you deal with him is up to you, Captain. We can provide our very best scientists to build the crucible…and the full support of our fleets_."

"Which it's in your best interests to provide anyway, cure or no cure," Shepard noted.

" _Think about it, Captain. The choice is yours_ ," the Dalatrass answered innocently.

"You know, Dalatrass, I can't help but think that it was rather…odd…that Cerberus, of all people, managed to make a nearly-successful attack on an STG top-secret facility. Particularly an STG top-secret facility on the salarian homeworld." Shepard chose her words very carefully; she couldn't afford to accuse the Dalatrass outright, but her grim supposition was such that the accusation was probably an accurate one.

She thought she knew where the leak was, and it wasn't coming from an indoctrinated member of the STG base. It should not have taken that long for the salarian to arrange the transfer of prisoners. The Dalatrass failed to get through plausible deniability what she now hoped to solicit through tactful—or not so tactful—backroom bargaining.

The whole situation turned Shepard's stomach.

" _I have no idea what you're talking about,_ " the Dalatrass grit out.

"Of course you don't." Plausible deniability: that seemed to be the salarian company line. Shepard shook herself. Those thoughts wouldn't help; she couldn't blame all salarians because their complex breeding schemes churned out a few idiots. "I'll say this much, if it were to become common suspicion that there was an element in the Salarian Union offering aid and comfort to the enemy—any enemy, in a wartime setting—the consequences to that element would be…severe."

The Dalatrass' expression tightened again, but she said nothing, the better not to incriminate herself.

"If there's nothing else, Dalatrass? I'm afraid my schedule is both full and pressing," Shepard asked, taking a drop of pleasure in the salarian's silence of necessity.

The Dalatrass hung up, leaving Shepard to lean on the railing of the communications deck. Suddenly, she pounded her fist against it. How could the salarians be so _stupid_?

Her anger at the lower-downs was an uncomfortable thing. On the one hand, they were following orders—the standard line for anyone in the position of lower-down; on the other hand, it was so obvious their leaders were stupid and wrong…

But without knowing what to say about what they ought to do, she had no right to be angry. People with complaints but no solutions irritated her; the idea of joining their ranks rankled, making it easy to cut off the thoughts.

It didn't matter. Sooner or later the salarians would wake up and wonder what the leadership was doing. She'd take what she could get; right now she had Kirrahe and Bau. It was a start.

" _Captain, we are ten minutes out,_ " EDI announced.

"Thank you, EDI."

The Dalatrass' deal sat like acid in Shepard's stomach. There was a danger in helping the krogan—she remembered Uvenk and many other nameless brutes—but there was something in the mix that hadn't been there before. Wrex. The thinker. The leader. The one who was willing to move on rather than salt old wounds to keep them fresh. There was an underlying feeling among the males—she'd heard it with her own ears—the wish that, rather than camps of male and female, rather than a state in which children visited only rarely and one could hope one recognized eyes or a nose or the shape of head plates, there could be _family_.

Was that enough? Was the chance of it, of a future like that for the ones too young to fight, enough to act as a fulcrum for the krogan mindset? It seemed like a lot to hope for.

"EDI. Did you record all that?" Shepard asked darkly.

" _By some strange coincidence I did, Shepard._ "

"Thanks. Synch it to my omnitool, will you? And make backups."


	273. Assembly

Shepard hadn't known what to expect from the Hollows. She remembered Wrex's story of the place, how he got the scars—some of them—on his face when his father, having summoned the Clans together, attacked him. Strangely, she hadn't really expected a _building_. More…more like a canyon or crevasse, a natural cave with dressed stone within. Something primitive and, to her mind, tribal.

She wondered if this idea made her anything like Javik, perpetually sneering at 'primitives,' or if her ignorance was excusable on the basis that krogan architecture and culture weren't part of any stage of her education. After all, she hadn't set foot on Tuchanka until last year, something most non-krogan couldn't say they'd done.

The Hollows were probably a gathering place even before they'd been demolished, their purpose lost but the space given new life when krogan needed a place to assemble _en masse_. Given the construction, Shepard hazarded that it had been some kind of theater or debating hall: the stage at the far end was suggestive of such things. The massive space, two or three stories and a sheared-off fourth, created galleries up above the open space of the floor.

In the galleries, which were all hung not with the tattered remnants of pennants, but with current heraldry defining whose Clan stood where. The majority of krogan packed, elbowing and arguing, disliking the close proximity to others of their species. They didn't dare, though, start a fight in this near-sacred place.

She wondered which pennant indicated Clan Urdnot; she certainly wouldn't have been able to pick Grunt out in this crowd, even if he'd been here. Wrex had been explicit: Grunt was filling out Aralakh Company after their losses on that nameless Rachni world.

On the main floor—reached by a wide staircase of shallow steps which branched into three separate staircases leading to the main space or up to the galleries—stood Clan leadership, various Shaman, or other krogan important enough or with clout enough to have a voice in a less jam-packed space.

She'd never seen or imagined so many krogan in one place, and Shepard considered herself accustomed to working with krogan. Still, hundreds, maybe even thousands of them continued filling the galleries, the stone of the floors worn where countless feet walked back and forth over more than ten centuries. More than the number of krogan, was the fact that in the lobby, the room between this space and outdoors, were many stone toughs which looked ancient, but not of the same design as the building. Those, Wrex noted absently, were for each major clan to put their weapons in.

Knives didn't count, but guns, grenades, anything with moving parts, went into the troughs. As part of the Hollows, it was unthinkable, against all tradition, for thievery to occur while others were in the meeting space. She suspected some of the more junior krogan would be left to watch their superiors' things, though.

Even she and her team had had to disarm, their weapons left with Clan Urdnot's collective armaments. They hadn't argued, tradition being what it was, but she doubted anyone on the ground team was any happier than she was. Being down to her knife in a place jam-packed with krogan who might decide Wrex's plans were too forward-thinking? It wasn't a comfortable sensation.

She also suspected that Wrex bent the rules to allow EDI—a synthetic with many moving parts and unknown capabilities—to be present.

She sensed the assembled krogan's attention, so many eyes taking in the strange array of aliens standing clustered with Clan Chief Urdnot. Humans. Machine. Asari. There was no telling what they thought Javik was. The murmurs from the galleries—a low, grinding rumble, like a heavy stone being pushed along—contained equal parts distaste and curiosity.

The plan was to let Garrus and Mordin bring Eve in once everyone else had assembled. This was partly for Eve's comfort—certainly at her suggestion—but mostly because it staved off annoyance about turians and salarians being on Tuchanka.

When was the last time aliens set foot on Tuchanka (and were known to be there)? Had aliens _ever_ set foot in the Hollows? She glanced uneasily at Wrex, wondering just how far he was going to push tradition today, or if this was throwing the big book of tradition out the window.

"Where's Clan Urdnot standing?" Shepard asked quietly, aware of the continued tramp-tramp of heavy armored feet on the stairs outside the room. How many krogan were there, now? Thousands, and however closely spaced they were, she had the impression there remained room for even more of them.

The Hollows began to fill with the smell of antsy krogan, reminding Shepard of one reason she was glad that she didn't travel with more than a handful at any given time. Dust baths might be practical and the cultural norm on Tuchanka, but musty krogan was a distinct odor, not at all desirable on a spacecraft.

"Up there," Wrex indicated to one of the banners that, if she squinted, did look rather like eyes under a headplate. The red color was rusty, and even at this distance she could tell the cloth was thick, coarsely woven stuff.

Given the noise and motion from that segment of the krogan, she suspected the story about her and the thresher maw was being passed around.

After a few more minutes, not more than a quarter of an hour, the procession of feet stopped. As Wrex began the opening forms in a slow, sonorous tone, new footsteps sounded. They were distinct because two sets were so much lighter than those of krogan. Flanked by Raux and Griz—who waited at the entrance, as if to discourage trouble—Eve, Mordin, and Garrus entered the space, which went deadly still and silent.

Shepard took a deep breath, feeling like she was about to jump from a high place.

Well, at least no one was armed with anything meant for distance.


	274. Rallying Cry

"Nobody said anything about this!" a krogan with a coarse voice snapped, once Wrex finished speaking. "Salarian? Turian? What the hell are they doing here?"

When general agreement—sans weapons—levelled in the direction of Shepard's crew, she spoke in a tone of zero tolerance. "Who the hell is this and is he part of the solution?" Her lip curled as she moved to stand closer to Wrex—more as if to add her presence to his than because she wanted to be closer to someone who could hit harder than she could.

"I'm Urdnot Wreav," the krogan snarled, taking a few flat-footed steps toward Shepard and Wrex. "Brood-brother to our…illustrious leader."

"Wreav and I share the same mother," Wrex clarified darkly, "and _nothing else._ Maybe you _should_ introduce yourself. Just to get it out of the way before the bullets start flying."

Vega resisted a grin when Wrex gave Wreav and the back of Shepard's head a wide leer.

"Sounds good. I'm Captain Shepard, working with your Clan Chief to end the genophage." Shepard suddenly stomped up to Wreav and slammed her head into his. She took two steps forward after doing so, forcing the krogan to step back—apparently he lacked the starch to stand his ground. "I took out a thresher maw _on foot._ How much trouble do _you_ think you'll give me?"

"You guys weren't joking…?" Vega breathed to Garrus. Garrus would have to know.

"Shepard, a biotic named Miranda, and an adolescent krogan. The maw was round three for some krogan coming of age rite," Garrus rumbled back.

Damn.

"Now fall in line, sweetheart, or I will drop you like a bad habit," Shepard finished. If she'd had fur or feathers or that thing like Garrus had on his head, they would have all been on end in threat. If she'd been a biotic, she'd be flaring.

There was a tense moment during which Vega was sure Wrex was ready to floor the other krogan if he didn't back down. Finally, Wreav averted his attention from Shepard, giving Wrex a nasty look. He abruptly turned to the rest of the krogan and Shepard turned on her heel and stomped back over to Wrex in an 'I'm done with you' fashion. No one could mistake it for a retreat or for backing down.

"Look how far we've fallen," Wreav declared in a carrying voice. "Are there no more true krogan, that we must rely on turians, salarians and… _humans_? We flay our enemies alive and drown them in a geyser of their own blood! We don't invite them into our homes—"

Shepard opened her mouth, either to voice her discontent to Wrex or to call Wreav out—Wrex seemed content to let Shepard establish herself as a holding a leadership position. However, Eve stepped forward with a cry like a call to arms. Which, he guessed, it kind of was.

"Enough of this! You can stand here, nursing old grievances while they fester as krogan have always done. Or you can fight the enemy you were born to destroy and win a new future our children!"

Gooseflesh rose on Vega's skin. Eve had something akin to Shepard: a power of speech that could rally the weariest most battered troops possible, get them fighting like they were fresh; it was a voice that could stop arguments born of old hatreds and turn the power anger brought in a constructive direction to yield a 'see what happens when you work together?' moment.

"I choose to _fight_ ," Eve snapped, striding to the middle of the open space, putting herself in clear view of the assembly. "Who will join me?"

If looks could kill…

"Women and aliens first," Shepard answered promptly.

"Funny how it's _only_ the women and aliens," Liara added as she joined Shepard, a step behind Garrus who had immediately and wordlessly followed his sister-in-arms.

Vega didn't know much about the First Contact War. He'd grown up with the idea of turians as an enemy, but had been too young. By the time he enlisted, 'the war was over' and there was tension—but he hadn't had much to do with turians.

He wondered what other people, the die-hards on both side of the line, would think about Shepard and Vakarian. Both were formidable on their own, put them together…

Just… _damn_.

"And here I though my vote went with without saying," Wrex grunted.

Vega was just close enough, to hear Shepard's low 'not in this crowd,' which Wrex answered with a low laugh that made the hairs on Vega's neck stand up.

"I'm in," Vega put in, joining the group, his words almost lost as the public sentiment turned out of Wreav's favor. Rallying cries ranging from inarticulate snarls to 'for the future!' to things his translator couldn't handle rose in volume.

"Now, let us hold our heads high like true krogan!" Wrex roared over the growing sounds of support. "There's a Reaper that needs killing! So let's kill it!"

More cheers, fists clanking against breastplates.

"Keep an eye on Wreav," Shepard addressed to the team at large as Wrex began issuing orders. "He gets stupid, frag him."

Assuming she didn't do it first, but that went without saying where Shepard was concerned.

A second later krogan started peeling off, flooding towards the Tomkahs that would take the amassed fighters.

"Shepard to turian air support. The krogan convoy is underway," she announced, hand to her ear to indicate 'radio conversation.'

Soon, only Wrex, Eve, and Shepard's team remained in the chamber, three Tomkahs holding as a kind of honor guard or contingency. He approved: this wasn't a time when one could be too careful.

" _Roger that, Captain_. _This is turian wing Artimec we have visual of the convoy. Vectors to the Shroud are locked in. We're ten minutes out and counting._ "

"Copy that, Artimec. We'll see what kind of time we can make up. Shepard out." Shepard glanced around, then wordlessly followed Wrex into one of the trucks.


	275. Trouble on the Horizon

Author's Note: I was going to do this yesterday, but life intervened. So, if you're like me April Fool's Day is something you don't look forward to in the least… have a couple more chapters to sweeten the day after. No joke. ^_^

-J-

Garrus' plates itched. It had nothing to do with the events at the Hollows or Javik's baleful presence—thankfully, the Prothean was feigning sleep and hadn't said much to anyone. He didn't think he could handle being in close quarters with the Prothean's usual attitude.

His nervousness came simply from the waiting that preceded their general situation and from being packed into the vehicle like a fish.

Victus had called in air cover for the mission as soon as they had a plan, but they'd had to wait for it to arrive. The waiting had been hard on everyone, since even a fast response time was slower than usual because of the war.

The idea of curing the genophage left him uneasy, too.

Shepard had admitted the Dalatrass tried to bribe her into screwing the mission over. They could be honest with one another: he might have taken the Dalatrass' deal. If his homeworld hadn't been burning…he'd have been sorely tempted.

But it was good to know Shepard had doubts, too. She looked pensive, her soft features pulled into thin lines as she slouched in her seat, eyes half closed.

"Wreav isn't the only one who will want revenge for the genophage, Wrex," Eve announced simply.

Shepard looked up from her silent contemplation.

Liara shifted nervously in her seat.

"You'll have to placate them somehow."

"I'll demand the Council return some of our old territory," Wrex answered confidently.

Garrus intercepted looks from Liara and Shepard that made him grin back at them. _Wrex_ playing Citadel politics? That would be something to see.

He could imagine Wrex (looking utterly strange in a tailored suit) hammering on the Council until, at the very least and to shut him up, the krogan were granted an embassy on the Citadel—a first step to reasserting themselves as a player in galactic politics. An Embassy, an Ambassador…maybe Eve could fill that role.

She seemed like a well-balanced sort…and he had the idea that a krogan female would have the interests of the children of her species in a different vein than a male would and wouldn't be eager to pick fights that didn't need to be picked.

"We'll need room to expand—recapture the glory of the Ancients," Wrex continued.

"Careful, Wrex. Someone might start thinking you're some kind of statesman," Shepard smirked before settling into her reflections again.

Garrus stomach huddled against his liver as Mordin voiced his very thoughts. "'Glory of Ancients' led to Krogan Rebellion. Countless deaths. Creation of genophage. Expansion plan…problematic."

"What _were_ the ancient krogan like?" Liara broke in, shifting uneasily.

On her other side, Shepard closed her eyes. The Dalatrass' proposal must really be eating at her. But was it because it was insulting or because it had been tempting? Maybe a bit of both. However ugly this war was, however desperate the situation, Shepard saw it as a chance for change. Maybe that was her version of optimism. He didn't know how she saw a post-Reapers galaxy…but if it was anything like he saw it, then it was little more than a vague idea of a smoking ruin with the silhouettes of survivors punctuating a bright horizon.

The odds weren't good, he knew that—everyone knew that. But without hope there was no point and optimism was the rock upon which hope could build. The hope that something different, something with the potential to be better than what the Reapers had laid waste to, was a good kind of optimism.

"Tuchanka wasn't always a wasteland," Eve answered. "In the ancient days, we were a proud people. We had dreams, a future to look forward to."

Mordin shifted. "Until salarian interference."

"No," Eve answered gently. "We destroyed Tuchanka ourselves. Technology changed us. It made life too easy. So we looked for new challenges…and we found them in each other."

"…well…new times bring new challenges," Liara said robustly, trying to alleviate the atmosphere in the Tomkah. "And new perspective brings new direction."

"Yes," Eve nodded. "And we do have the lessons of history. But Captain…"

Shepard opened her eyes. "Hm?"

"You look deeply troubled. On the shuttle, you wanted to say something."

A thick silence ensued.

Shepard sighed and ran a hand through her hair; she had not been trying to hide her grim thoughtfulness so there was no surprise when it was questioned. For a moment it looked like she would wave her introspection off as something harmless—which it was, since she was committed to action. "While we were waiting for the turian support, the Dalatrass got in contact with me. She wanted to cut a deal for the Salarian Union's support. Mordin, the salarians sabotaged the Shroud facility years ago; the cure's not going to work unless we fix it."

"She did what?" Liara asked, looking appalled. "With the galaxy burning?"

"Does that really surprise you?" Garrus asked, cocking his head.

Liara opened her mouth, then shut it. "No, I suppose not."

"Standard STG practice. Should be able to compensate. No problem," Mordin answered. "However, heads up is appreciated."

"And she thought we wouldn't know better?" Wrex growled.

"Correctly. Likely would fool tests."

But not Mordin, Garrus was sure. He was former STG, knew their work, would have known to check and double check for anything funky. Mordin was a perfectionist among perfectionists—and skilled enough that it didn't slow him down as it might have done with others.

"Familiar with STG work, can adjust. Did not come this far for nothing," Mordin waved. "No need for concern."

"I told you we could count on her," Wrex declared, puffing up a bit at faith justified.

"We're not done yet," Shepard answered uneasily.

Suddenly, the truck ground to a halt.

"No, but it does look like we're finally getting started," Garrus noted.

"It is about time," Javik noted grimly as the Prothean hastily—unusually so—followed Shepard out of the truck.

Suddenly, Garrus wondered if Javik had been so quiet and so dour…because he didn't like tight spaces.


	276. Dissonance

The Tomkah stuttered to a stop. Vega was just close enough to read Shepard's inaudible 'Oh, what now?' which matched his own feelings. It seemed like every time this operation got some momentum, something cropped up to try to stop it.

"Liara, Vega. Everyone else, wait here." With that, she worked her way to the door and disappeared after Javik, who stood outside, breathing deeply.

Yeah, the Tomkah was a tight space, and a little cramped.

The air of Tuchanka was full of dust, the winds blowing strong enough to tug on loose articles, but he could see the Shroud facility in the distance, above what looked like a low wall. It looked so alien on the Tuchanka horizon, the elegant sweeping lines and its pale non-native materials seemed to hold up the sky.

"Hey, Doc?" he leaned into the truck. "Say for a second something _really bad_ happens to the Shroud…"

Dr. Solus blinked for a moment, as if processing the question and all its implications. "Problematic for mission, not catastrophic for Tuchanka. Currently serving as catalyst: process _would_ occur naturally, Shroud makes it occur faster."

"Right. Good to know." With that, he joined Shepard towards the head of the column, glancing at the discolored sky overhead. He couldn't see the Reaper that staked out the Shroud, but he didn't need to. With the way things kept going, he supposed he wouldn't be surprised to arrive at the Shroud only to find eight or a dozen Reapers camped out over there.

He was really starting to hate them. Bad enough they could win through weight of numbers, it was worse that they didn't really need overwhelming odds. It was easier to salve one's conscience when one could say 'no one could beat those odds—there were just too many.'

Javik, recovered enough to climb back into the truck, hung out of the door, one arm on the roof, apparently taking in the scenery. In addition to not liking tight spaces, Vega also noticed that, when possible, the Prothean sat close to a window, which he would resolutely look out. Apparently windows helped.

"Turian wing Artimec, this is Shepard. We've hit a roadblock. Attack's going to be delayed again," Shepard declared firmly.

Shepard didn't have the wing on the general frequency—to prevent too many people talking at once—but her suddenly hostile expression said it all.

"Dammit! Then _un_ lock your vector! Without ground support, that thing's going to—" she winced, putting her fist in her hand. "Why is it every time I bring friends to Tuchanka, we end up looking like the Three Stooges?"

Vega grimaced. "What are the Three Stooges?"

"Just an expression I grew up with," Shepard sighed. "And there they go…" She reached up to her ear as the wing—or part of it—sailed in. "You want to tell me why they were on approach _before_ we got in range?"

Yeah, Victus sacrificed more than his son over the turian bomb operation. He'd sacrificed Shepard's trust, too.

"Look, Victus, I think the Reapers already read your playbook. Maybe stop running the procedures they're aware of? You're the Primach. Call them—"

Suddenly, one of the ships in the distance took fire.

"Oh _shit_!" Vega hissed as the ship shot away from the engagement area, right towards where the trucks were piled up. Shepard and everyone else threw themselves behind cover as the pilot (probably) tried to pull up, but failed.

The next thing he was really aware of was something very heavy hitting the ground…something that sounded like a truck, and he hoped it wasn't the one Eve and the others were in. He darted around to find the ship to see if the pilot was alive, was smoke on the wind and the smell of burning rock.

"Get Eve out of here!" Shepard screamed, voice rising sharply. "Screw the roadblock, you're in a Tomkah! Just do it! Go! Go!"

The trucks sounded, engines gunning. None of the drivers apparently wasted time, leaving Vega wondering if the drivers weren't patched in, audio-only, to the working frequency. The trucks struggled to get over the concrete impediments. Several of the Tomkahs got stuck going over the rubble, but a truck behind would simply crawl up behind them, and get them over. The last truck over had trouble, but finally found a way.

Well, that was something...

"I _know_ it's tearing you to pieces!" Shepard continued, probably on the other line, desperately trying not to sound sarcastic. "So if you _can_ abort, I'd appreciate it!" If the radio had been an old-school handset, she might just have thrown it to the ground in sheer frustration. "You know, I'm _really_ starting to feel nostalgic for the last time I was here," she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, but encountering the clear visor of her helmet. "Hey Wrex?"

" _Hey, yeah?_ "

"You guys have a Rite of Teamwork or some shit? Because I'm really starting to think we need one."

Wrex laughed. " _Actually, we do. Haven't used it much in the last few centuries, but it may come back into fashion once the Clans have to cooperate._ "

" _Shepard?_ " Eve asked, tone quite composed. " _There should be tunnels leading off where you are. If you go through the catacombs, you should eventually come out on the other side. We would be able to pick you up from there._ "

"Thank you."

"I see a tunnel!" Liara called.

"Then let's get walking," Shepard sighed.

"What happened?" Vega asked Shepard, as they approached the tunnel leading into the dark recesses off the side of the road, or whatever they were on.

"The kind of thing that happens when militaries—hell, when _service branches_ —aren't used to working together," she answered grimly. "It just looks worse because of the situation and the, er, _eclectic_ nature of the participants."

Shepard led the way, heading into the dark recesses of the tunnel with a stomping step that probably meant trouble for anything lurking down there.


	277. Among the Ruins

"Wrex! I've got sunlight up ahead," Shepard relayed, glad to see the light shining down. She picked up her pace, the light bouncing as she hurried up the stairs.

" _Well, if you can see sunlight, that's progress._ "

Full daylight on eyes accustomed to darkness was painful, but being out of the dark meant being out of the smell of dust and something she could not quite describe. Something stifling that might just have been the apprehension of herself and her teammates.

"Whoa…" Garrus rumbled, his mandibles falling open as he cocked his head to contemplate—through slitted, still-adjusting eyes—the sight before them.

"Whoa…" Vega repeated, shading his eyes with one hand rather than squinting like a near-sighted bear. "Looks like something out of a history book, huh?"

Shepard opened her mouth, but nothing came out. After a moment of squinting and blinking in the glaring Tuchanka sunlight, she realized some of the brightness was more than just sunshine: it was the sunshine bouncing off carefully angled, mirror-smooth expanses of stone high up on the next structure over. She might have confused them for windows if she had not known that these ruins were over a millennium old and that glass, even plastiglass, wouldn't remain that smooth and unbroken after that much time. From the cant and the effect, she suspected they were intentionally oriented specifically to catch and reflect the sunlight.

Construction existed here, on an enormous scope, looming overhead as well as descending downwards, ornamented, but crumbling. The buildings had heavy-looking architecture, all oblique angles and massive scale, contrasted with pyramidal, right-angled ornaments mathematically placed. It had a heavy grandeur that screamed 'math and art cohabitating.' Multistoried multi-levels hinted that this had once been some kind of cultural hub and that the catacombs might not always have been considered catacombs. If she squinted, she thought she saw what might be statuary in the distance, a little crumbled, but probably of krogan figures. Every species that produced art inevitably produced likenesses of its members.

"Hey, Eve, you still there?" Shepard asked, cuing her radio.

" _I am, Captain._ "

"We got out of the catacombs okay…but I'm not sure where we are. Looks like a city…with green stuff growing." The green should have been the amazing thing; it was not little sprigs of weed here and there, but leafy growths and, in the chasm running parallel to where she stood, massive woody roots, greyed under the Tuchanka sun, weathered by the winds, but clearly alive.

The evidence of complex culture—a culture that thought to ornament its buildings and surroundings—distracted her. The scale of the architecture shocked her, too. It was not something that, according to her understanding, should exist. But here it was.

It was like the various megastructures from Earth's distant past, the ones that—before the discovery of the mass relays—sparked periodic debate as to how they had been built: whether by human ingenuity and backbreaking labor, or by 'assistance' from other sources.

It reminded her of Mordin's talk about the Collectors, how the Protheans as a race had lost their collective soul to become them. No art, no progression, no _soul_ —replaced by tech. But here was evidence of a soul no one would expect, and it gave her perspectives and perceptions an entirely new depth. There was soul here, a half-forgotten thing but one which was not beyond restoration. And a soul was hard to kill, or so the saying went.

It made her agree, yet again, with the salarian—Padok Wiks, on Sur'Kesh—that except for salarian interference, the krogan might well have been living in a golden age relative to their technological and societal setting. There was possibility in the ruins of history.

" _Ah_ ," Eve's tone held a trace of amusement, making Shepard think that the krogan already knew where the team had come out, generally speaking. She also suspected the krogan was imagining their dumbstruck surprise. " _That's the City of the Ancients. And that 'green stuff' is hope. The last bit of it left on Tuchanka._ "

"I'll mind my step," Shepard responded blandly, glancing at the paving stones. Some of them had been disrupted by the vegetation, others by the march of time, but even her unpracticed eye could see that—in the city's heyday—the paving stones would have laid flat and tight against one another.

There was more there than just careful paving: the stone was ornamented and dressed, carefully chiseled with geometric patterns of precise arrangement: the work of an artisan who expected his, or her, work to last forever, someone who took great pride in his or her work.

" _Please do_ ," the krogan chuckled. " _But as with most life on Tuchanka, I expect it will be…resilient._ "

"Man-eating, then," Vega muttered. "Good to know."

"Shepard, look," Garrus rumbled, pointing over the edge of the level upon which they stood.

Running along the level below—an alley or thoroughfare, Shepard thought—was _water_.

Shepard had not realized that Tuchanka _had_ above-ground water, much less above-ground water that might nurture life, and certainly not _clean_ -looking water. But there it was, moving, running water that slithered in a little rivulet—a creek, even—its bed worn into the accumulated earth and stone below. Evidence indicating clearly that this was not recent runoff, but the product of some upwelling from deep, deep underground. The roots that pushed through the sturdy krogan legacy all seemed to be working—or had worked—down to the life-giving liquid. And even their thirst was not enough to deplete it.

Tuchanka's flora, like its occupants, like its fauna, was fighting back.

Suddenly, several flaming objects rained from above, breaking Shepard's dumbfounded study of this hidden thing.

"We've got company!" Garrus barked as one of what everyone recognized as Reaper dropships, landed ahead of them, disgorging a bevy of temporarily disoriented husks.

Shepard hoped the ensuing violence in this era would mean a restoration of these ruins rather than bringing the ruination of the last wars fought here.


	278. Pregame

Liara was glad to get into the truck. The tremors of the City of the Ancients—as well as the art there—suggested Kalros was large, even for a thresher maw. For krogan to give a name to such a creature—and name and her own mythology—was suggestive.

The Mother of all Thresher Maws.

And Liara felt absolutely certain that avoiding Kalros was not an option.

The ground suddenly started shaking, a cloud of dust appearing some hundreds of yards away from the stonework upon which they stood.

"Move it!" Shepard's voice rose in pitch, a shrill edge to it as she watched the dust cloud.

Liara flung herself forward, her biotics flaring—and, to her relief, Javik had flared as well.

It puzzled her that the Prothean's biotics glowed _green_ …but that was something for another time.

"Holy shit!" Vega yelped as he peered out the front windshield, garnering a snarl from the krogan driving. "Look at the size of that thing!"

Liara's mouth dropped. All they could see cutting through the Tuchanka terrain were the back ridges of the maw… but each of those ridges was twice as high as the Tomkah and at least as thick around as Vega was at the shoulder.

The driver pulled the Tomkah back as Kalros cut a tight corner. The sand around which she wrapped suddenly began to cave in, the Tomkah containing Wreav and his men sliding down into the hole. The scream that followed, only a little muted by the metal of the truck, was unlike anything Liara ever heard.

Garrus shuddered, his range of hearing being higher and more sensitive; Javik hissed softly, his eyes squinting as if he was trying to resist covering his audial wells.

"You _fought_ one of those?" Vega demanded, sounding caught between awe and deprecation at such stupid behavior.

"Yeah," Shepard answered, joining him to peer over the driver's shoulder. "Look at the size of those spines…"

"On _foot_?"

"Well, it was smaller," Shepard shook her head.

"And we're gonna fight _that_ one?" Vega demanded.

"On foot is just for culture. This is serious…so welcome to ICT," Shepard ended lamely.

"What about Wreav?" EDI asked.

"No way he survived that," Wrex answered brusquely. "Besides, he was an ass anyway. Only cause trouble later."

On that they could agree.

"Shepard, I know we've beaten the odds before…but this is starting to push the limits," Garrus announced.

"You had an idea, Eve," Shepard said, crawling back into the main compartment of the truck. "Let's have it."

Eve's veil shifted as the krogan grinned beneath it. "We summon Kalros."

"Feed the Reaper to a thresher maw…?" Shepard's grin was varren-ish.

Liara found herself grinning as well—she'd idly thought something similar herself. And from the expressions of the rest of the ground team (barring EDI) most of them had had at least some nascent through in that direction.

"Need a distraction," Mordin put in, drumming his fingers on one elbow. "Maw big distraction—also, Reaper mostly metal. Good supplement for maw's diet."

"No one's ever faced Kalros and lived," Wrex put in. "If Tuchanka has a temper, Kalros is it."

Chuckles all around. "I'm really liking this idea. How do we get Kalros to show her pretty face?" Shepard asked, revitalized with the idea of having something other than air support to throw at the Reaper.

"The arena around the Shroud was originally devoted to Kalros' glory," Eve announced. "The salarians thought she would scare away intruders."

Liara's eyebrows arched. Kalros was really that old? It made her wonder about the thresher maw lifecycle…but not enough to consider asking Glyph to look into it later. She had the feeling this thing with Kalros would quite quench her curiosity about thresher maws.

"Appears to have worked," Mordin noted.

"There are two maw hammers there—the biggest ever built."

Liara directed her attention to Eve. It was hard to tell, but she thought the krogan's drift contained distinctly purple nervousness, even if she kept it out of her voice. If the Reaper was the last obstacle, and if they had a solution to the problem it presented, then all Eve had to distract her from the upcoming and vague 'procedure' that had Mordin concerned, and which was needed to cure the genophage, was gone.

"Like the one during the Rite?" Shepard asked Wrex, who nodded in the affirmative.

"Threshers respond to sonic compressions. Something like the hammers go off, they come have a look," Wrex elaborated.

"So she has a look, finds the Reaper and thinks her territory's being encroached on," Vega frowned. "Then…what? She eats the Reaper?"

Garrus coughed softly. "That would be _amazing_ ," he grinned.

"Someone would need to get pictures," Shepard agreed.

"We would not try something so foolish in my cycle." For a moment Liara thought Javik was simply criticizing—as he so often did—but from the way Shepard was watching him he was simply answering a silent interrogation. "But neither did we have such equipment. Better the Reaper shoot at an animal than at us. And if this Kalros is enough to inconvenience it…good. If it is enough to damage it, so much the better. Air support may be able to destroy it totally, if it is already damaged."

The terrain shuddered again, and Liara had to wonder at Kalros' agitation. And, if she was so agitated, why she hadn't already attacked the Reaper? Or was she simply working herself into a concentrated kill-ready mindset and this plan would simply piggyback on that?

The krogan would know, but this was no time to ask for that kind of detail.

"I want to leave someone to watch Eve's and Mordin's backs—EDI, Liara, if you would?"

Liara nodded, approving even if she would have preferred going with Shepard. Her biotics were powerful enough to be trusted to hold off any ground troops they might encounter before extraction. EDI could serve as a direct uplink to Dr. Chakwas in case Eve required immediate care.


	279. Underfoot

Javik's senses reeled as the Reaper's loud, low rumbling whine tore through his head. Although 'whine' was usually something he considered high pitch, he had never found a better word for that sound the Reapers made. He had heard worse plans than this, to use the thresher maw against the Reaper…

…but if he was honest, he was curious as to how that would go. Kalros was large, massive even among massive creatures. And the Reaper was a Reaper. Nothing more needed to be said.

But his curiosity was a secondary thing and would remain irrelevant if they could not get to the stupid maw hammers which were, of course, placed nowhere convenient to actual use.

"Everyone okay?" Shepard demanded sharply.

They should be asking her, if the answer was not staring them in the face. Javik scrambled down to find Shepard and her protégé picking themselves up off the ground the Reaper had shot out from under their feet.

"Vega!" she snapped.

Vega looked up at her as he heaved himself to his feet. "…I just got shot by a Reaper."

"If you had been shot _by_ a Reaper you would be dead," Javik observed.

Vega immediately shook himself out of his close encounter shock to glare. Glaring was good. It meant his mind was back in place.

Javik flinched as the radio chirruped, indicating a new line patched in. " _This is turian wing Artimec to ground team! Push on ahead, Captain—we'll give that bastard something else to shoot at._ "

"Affirmative, Artimec and thank you," Shepard answered simply. "Let's make use of whatever time they can give us. Garrus, Javik. Vega, you're with me."

" _Shepard, I am picking up multiple Reaper ground units in the arena,_ " the EDI-machine announced. " _We are currently in good stead to hold our own, as they do not seem to have noticed us._ "

"We'll keep them off you, then," Shepard answered.

Javik glanced at Garrus. The turian looked built for speed in a way he was not. "I will watch your back, turian. You will go for the hammer controls."

Garrus studied him just long enough to convey his dislike of being referred to by his species…and of being commanded by someone he didn't recognize as an authority figure. And, possibly, even if he did he would balk because that was his nature. "Fair enough—"

"Damn," Shepard breathed, watching the Reaper move. "We're going to literally be underfoot."

Garrus and Javik moved for a better look.

The turian pilots had, in fact, pulled the Reaper away from the Shroud, but only a little…and it did look as though it now stood squarely between the hammers instead of between and somewhat behind them.

"That was a counterproductive airstrike," Javik noted.

"Thank you Captain Obvious," Garrus rumbled softly.

"Let's make the most of it," Shepard said. "Let's get moving."

With that, she vaulted out of cover and began jogging, taking the hammer furthest from the Shroud.

Javik followed immediately, Garrus scrambling behind him.

The run-up was simple but long, and the Reaper seemed to have enough presence of mind to divert its attention back and forth between the turian pilots and the team on the ground. Or, perhaps, it was simply confused as to which was the greater threat.

Regardless, it didn't seem to know that a third team had managed to reach the Shroud. He hoped this Mordin doctor was as good as everyone seemed to think. It would be most displeasing to discover that all this had been for nothing…particularly since Shepard was wasting so much time and effort on this pyjak-brained scheme.

The Reaper was even worse up close. He could feel the air rattle and tingle before and after it let loose that whine, and it shivered the tissues within his skull…and made his sinuses and audial canals itch in the most unpleasant way.

The arena _was_ crawling with Reapers—mostly small ones, but with enough of the larger units to make Javik feel that discretion was the better part of valor. It would be best to activate these hammers quickly, get out of the way, and get out of the area. Perhaps the Reaper or the thresher maw—during their fight or in their death throes—would be able to flatten some of the troops currently slowing progress.

"Go for the hammer! I will cover you!" he barked to Garrus, who made a hand sign that he heard rather than stopping to verbally confirm it and sprinted away.

Javik followed, rifle shouldered. He couldn't see Shepard and Vega any longer.

The Reaper creaked and whined overhead, its feet threatening to crush the unwary as it contended with the increasingly aggressive turian pilots.

He had to give them credit for courage: letting a Reaper shoot at you was crazy. Doing it willingly was insane.

BOOM!

The hammer came down and rocked the very ground beneath his feet. He felt the shiver all the way up to his knees.

"Come on!" Garrus barked, grabbing his arm long enough to give it a compelling tug before taking off.

" _Hammer One, please proceed to the Shroud for pickup,_ " the shuttle pilot commanded calmly.

"Affirmative!" Garrus shouted back, stumbling as the hammer hit the ground again.

Javik could only assume that the turian already had a line of travel planned, so he fell in hoping he wasn't wrong.

There was no sign from the other hammer.

They reached the Shroud facility to find Mordin working at a console. "Eve already at shuttle. Shuttle now rendezvous point. Suggest you join her there," the salarian declared without looking up from what he was doing.

Suddenly, the second hammer came down.

BOOM-BOOM. This close to the hammers, the impacts almost weren't sounds at all—just unpleasant sensations.

That part of the plan, at least, had gone well.

"Shepard. An update would not go amiss," Javik announced over the radio as Garrus half-stumbled into the shuttle. He must have pulled something while sprinting about under the Reaper's feet.


	280. Badass

Vega scrambled back as the second hammer started its slow drum.

The sound spurred him and Shepard out of the area, to pick a path that led towards the Shroud…and preferably looping them to some degree around the Reaper, who seemed unaware of their presence almost under its feet.

Maybe that was for the best, because Vega had no desire to find out what being toejam felt like.

It took something like three impacts from both hammers before Kalros erupted out of the ground, screaming and wailing as she thrashed about…

…and then she saw the Reaper.

Both he and Shepard slowed as the Reaper turned full towards this new stimulus. "…we don't want to be here…" Shepard said numbly before giving herself a little shake.

Vega forced himself to move his fingers and toes, breaking the momentary paralysis that had grabbed him at Kalros' first screech. Now he understood why little furry things _froze_ when they heard the scream of a hunting bird.

He wished he could have remained ignorant.

"Reaper and Kalros are about to get friendly! Vega and I have a clear run to the Shroud—is everyone else there yet?" Shepard demanded.

" _Affirmative—Garrus and Javik just got here._ "

Thank goodness. It had been uncomfortable not being able to see anyone else through the dust the Reaper kept kicking up and the chaos of fighting through the ground troops—which also seemed to have been distracted by Kalros since they weren't trying to swarm him and Shepard anymore.

"Good! Vega and I are on the far hammer, it's going to take time for us to get to the Shroud! We're fine, but this is no place for Eve! Get her out of here!"

" _Shepard, if we bug out now, it means I'll have to double back for you and that takes time,_ " Cortez answered calmly.

"Don't worry about us! There's a Tomkah down here. Vega, Mordin and I can take it—holy shit!"

In the time it had taken Shepard to have this brief conversation, Kalros had noticed the Reaper and decided she didn't like it. The thresher maw screamed again and threw herself at the Reaper as if she could crush it beneath her considerable bulk…a considerable bulk the Reaper found difficult to manage.

"Reaper meet thresher maw!" Vega shouted as the Reaper and Kalros contended in a momentary standstill of strength versus strength.

Then the Reaper managed to turn Kalros' weight, throwing the thresher maw in a twisting mess to connect with the Shroud's base.

The thresher maw slithered hastily beneath the surface, just missing a shot from the Reaper that might have gone right through it…but it wasn't the retreat of a defeated party.

Suddenly, the thresher maw burst out of the ground again, this time out of the Reaper's blind spot, arcing above it and catching it high on its back.

"EDI, tell me you're recording this!"

" _I am recording this._ "

"Did you see that?" Vega shouted, not quite believing his own eyes. "Just…BOOM! Hit it again!"

Kalros' momentum carried both it and the Reaper to the ground. The Reaper's inflexible structure prevented it from adapting fast enough to counter the thresher maw's attack. The force of the impact shattered stone and sent cracks racing away from the epicenter and seemed to daze the thresher maw for a moment—but only for a moment.

"Get out of here, Cortez! We're gonna be okay!" Shepard cheered, her eyes wide and glittering as they fixed on the spectacle unfolding before them.

The instant Kalros recovered from slamming herself (as well as the Reaper) into the ground, she began wrapping it in her sinewy coils.

Again, the Reaper's rigidity of form—and the fact that it had been knocked off its feet—worked against the Reaper. It was good to see something like that have to fight, to struggle…and appear to be losing despite its best efforts. Its main cannon fired off with no success—did that look like a panic reaction to anyone else? _Could_ a Reaper panic?

He hoped so, and he hoped it was panicking now. A taste of its own medicine before it died.

The thresher maw screamed again, a crooning sound comparative to the racket it had made so far, as it continued coiling around the Reaper before slowly dragging itself and its prey back to the hole out of which it had exploded. The Reaper flailed and gave off that loud, rumbling scream…but neither act helped it. Nor did the new volley of laser fire, since it couldn't direct its main cannon in any useful direction.

Slowly, inexorably, Kalros descended back into her tunnel, still emitting that crooning sound, and dragging the Reaper with her. The sound of metal grating on the arena's stonework and the Reaper struggling as it tried to brace itself against the tunnel's edges was enough to set a person's teeth on edge and raise gooseflesh on his skin.

The Reaper managed a few moments of traction against the thresher maw's pull before Kalros gave a mighty wrench and the Reaper sunk abruptly into the hole and out of sight. Unpleasant sounds of machine versus organic followed…then grew silent.

Excellent supplement for maw's diet, just like Mordin said.

The silence that fell manifested as pressure on his eardrums, as an unnatural stillness creeping up on him.

"Take that!" Shepard shouted, breaking the stillness and the pressure before turning a grin to him. "Come on, let's finish this and get the hell out of here."

"You think someone was recording that?" he asked, following her at the fastest lope he could manage while still negotiating the now more torn up than before terrain.

"I hope so! Can you imagine something like that on the extranet?"

He could. It would make whoever posted it famous. More than that though, it would show the galaxy a Reaper being eaten by a thresher maw. Something as badass as a Reaper had had no chance against a…whatever thresher maws were.


	281. Distanced

Steve Cortez's guts were taut as he waited for the call to come in and pick up Wrex, Eve, and Eve's security detail—Liara and EDI. The Shroud stood stark against the horizon, letting off its flurry of particles. The Reaper stood in front of it, firmly blocking the way. And where they was a big Reaper the ground would be crawling with little ones.

He didn't mind the hot pickup he was mentally preparing himself for.

He _did_ mind the ground team being that close to that monster, almost literally under its feet.

Shepard had briefed him on how things would play out, since it would be safer for Eve to travel by air than by ground. It would be faster to extract the insertion team by shuttle, too. It was a tossup as to which team would need extraction first—the team with Eve or the team manning the hammers.

He frowned at the Reaper again through the digital displays mimicking windows. It was a neat little thing compared to its bigger brothers…but definitely in the way. He didn't like the sound of this hammer idea, but better to throw a thresher maw at the Reaper than try something else.

" _Alright, Cortez_ ," Shepard announced. " _We're starting our run-up. Be ready_."

"I am ready and waiting, Captain," he answered.

Hoarse shouting suddenly sounded from somewhere near Shepard—throaty roars that Cortez assumed were krogan ground support. The Reaper probably had noticed the Tomkahs arrive and reasonably suspected trouble before sending out its own ground forces to deal with said trouble.

He found his foot jiggling and stilled the uneasy motion. Waiting was hard, and even as he thought it he had to remind himself to stop grinding his teeth.

Watching the Reaper start shooting at the place he knew Shepard and her team were was enough to make him wish he had been a bit more attentive to the pilots' superstitions he adhered to.

The odor eaters, commonly found in shoes, stashed under the pilot's seat should have been changed out before he dropped Shepard off for this mission. He knew he should have changed them…because there was too much bad hoodoo going on for them to possibly keep up with it…or not tank out from the excess of bad hoodoo…

Suddenly, the turian unit—wing, they ironically called it—swept in, weapons blazing. The Reaper looked away from where Shepard and her team were to pay attention to the annoying flies buzzing around its head.

" _Cortez_ ," EDI announced. " _We have gained the Shroud facility and our objective is underway. Dr. Solus says this will not take long and wishes you to approach for pickup._ "

"Understood, EDI. Beginning approach."

He didn't hear it or feel it, but he caught the motion out of the corner of one eye—a large weight dropping from a kind of tower. The Reaper flinched and turned its attention towards the new stimulus. "Hammer One, please proceed to the Shroud for pickup," he announced over the radios.

" _Affirmative_!" Garrus' voice rumbled.

The Shroud grew larger as Cortez looped it, coming in from the Reaper's blind side. As he touched down, he felt it:

BOOM-BOOM!

The second hammer was up, sending a kind of heartbeat through the terrain.

He landed as close to the Shroud as he could get to find Eve leaning heavily on EDI and Liara, Liara's biotics supporting as much of the krogan's weight as possible. The three women hurried into the shuttle. Liara helped Eve to the ground and anchored the krogan to the floor with medic's straps.

"Is she okay?" Cortez demanded.

"The procedure was traumatic but she will be fine. Dr. Solus wishes her to be in Dr. Chakwas' care as quickly as possible."

A scream rent the air, an unnatural sound that chilled Cortez's blood and made every inch of his skin tighten. The sound touched something primal, a prey response so deep and ingrained that it didn't exist in the human mind except when dragged up by sounds like _that_.

"If I may, Cortez," EDI said, unbuckling from the copilot's seat. "I believe it would be wise to attempt a video capture of this altercation."

"Let's hope Kalros knows how to smile pretty."

" _Reaper and Kalros are about to get friendly! Vega and I have a clear run to the Shroud—is everyone else there yet?_ " Shepard demanded.

"Yeah, we're all here," Garrus panted as he and Javik threw themselves into the cabin. "Is she okay?" From his tone, the turian meant Eve.

"Affirmative—Garrus and Javik just got here," Cortez relayed.

" _Good! Vega and I are on the far hammer, it's going to take time for us to get to the Shroud! We're fine, but this is no place for Eve! Get her out of here!_ "

"Shepard, if we bug out now, it means I'll have to double back for you and that takes time," Cortez observed, not liking the plan at all.

" _There's a Tomkah down here. Vega, Mordin and I can take it—holy shit!_ " There was elation in her tone, followed by a whoop from Vega.

" _Reaper meet Thresher maw!_ " Vega hollered.

" _EDI, tell me you're recording this!_ "

"I am recording this," EDI answered.

" _Did you see that! Just…BOOM! Hit it again!_ "

" _Get out of here, Cortez! We're gonna be okay!_ " Shepard cheered.

Cortez disagreed on principle. He didn't trust ground vehicles on this thresher maw-ridden, bombed out planet but orders stood. He pulled the Kodiak away from the Shroud, all the displays on to allow the impression of 'windows' so the team in the shuttle could see what Shepard and Vega were howling about.

"Hell's bells…" Liara murmured, sucking breath.

Cortez didn't look away from his piloting. He could catch EDI's footage later; he felt sure it would be well worth watching. The chatter from the cabin was distracting, not the least because he kept having to resist the urge to turn his head and try to see what they were seeing.


	282. Clash

"… _we don't want to be here…_ " Shepard's voice crackled over the radio in the wake of a screech that had to be Kalros in the background.

"If I may, Cortez," EDI began, unbuckling from the copilot's seat. "I believe it would be wise to attempt a video capture of this altercation."

Cortez's expression cracked into a grim smile. "Let's hope Kalros knows how to smile pretty."

EDI made her way to the door, observing that Wrex sat with Bakara, ignoring the safety-straps anchoring her. The krogan looked barely conscious, and although EDI could see no signs of damage, Mordin had described the procedure as 'traumatic.'

The door opened to some complaints. "How many times in your life are you going to see a thresher maw and a Reaper fight?" EDI asked as she seized the safety handle and leaned out of the open door. "Posterity would never forgive us if we failed to record it."

A human would never have been able to manage such a precarious angle with any safety. While her optics were mostly intended for data-gathering, she was gratified to find that her ability to zoom in was reasonable.

" _Reaper and Kalros are about to get friendly! Vega and I have a clear run to the Shroud—is everyone else there yet?_ " Shepard demanded.

"Affirmative—Garrus and Javik just got here," Cortez answered.

" _Good! Vega and I are on the far hammer, it's going to take time for us to get to the Shroud! We're fine, but this is no place for Eve! Get her out of here!_ "

"I'm fine," the krogan slurred, though she convinced no one that this was the case.

"Shepard, if we bug out now, it means I'll have to double back for you and that takes time," Cortez answered.

" _Don't worry about us! There's a Tomkah down here. Vega, Mordin and I can take it—holy shit_!"

If EDI could have, or had there been any point, she might have gasped. Kalros came arcing through the sand, leaping like a dolphin in Earth's ocean, neatly avoiding the Reaper's laser fire. A moment later, Kalros burst out of the earth to slam into the Reaper, her massive coils flopping about as the synthetic took the charge.

" _Reaper meet thresher maw_!" Vega whooped.

The Reaper adjusted its footing, then swung around, bringing Kalros with it to slam the thresher maw's back into the facility before shouldering itself against the beast. By now, EDI wasn't the only one almost hanging out of the shuttle to watch the battle.

Kalros screamed in pain, then slithered beneath the surface, leaving the Reaper to reorient itself.

Something in EDI's mind (synonym: fluttered), something she decided was hope: hope, that the thresher maw wasn't done with this fight yet, although it might be better for the Shroud facility if she was.

The Reaper didn't finish turning away before Kalros was back, arcing out of the ground from behind the Reaper.

" _EDI, tell me you're recording this_!" Shepard cheered.

"I am recording this." In the highest definition, the clearest detail she could, because EDI felt this was a piece of footage that would find itself cut, recut, distributed and redistributed across the Extranet. It was the sort of thing organics would set to music, or tamper with the playback speed.

Even with full knowledge of how many Newtons of force the thresher maw struck the Reaper with, EDI found it was almost more than she could grasp. Thresher maws were considered one of the toughest non-sapient lifeforms in the galaxy…and this one was not only fighting a Reaper, but seemed to be getting the upper hand. Not a single one of the Reaper's shots struck the thresher maw.

" _Did you see that?_ " Vega shouted. " _Just…BOOM! Hit it again!_ "

Kalros' force slammed into the Reaper, knocking it front-first into the sand before the maw's flexible body wrapped around, dragging it onto its side. Hundreds of meters of worm—because that was what thresher maws were classed as, worms—coiled around the Reaper with a screeching sound Shepard's and Vegas' radios picked up.

" _Get out of here, Cortez! We're gonna be okay!_ " Shepard called.

The Reaper struggled as Kalros continued to clench her coils around it, dragging it ten meters at a time back towards one of the holes the battle left. Doubtless she planned to see if the Reaper was edible, but meant to do so in the comfort of her own home.

A being beyond the comprehension of any other, EDI thought (shorthand: grimly) and it had just been relegated to being a worm's takeout dinner, despite its best efforts.

Kalros let out another scream, this one possibly to let everything else in the area know she appreciated the sacrifice of this strange arthropod. Reapers probably looked like arthropods to a thresher maw: all shell, with a gooey interior. She wondered (shorthand: whimsically) how Kalros would react when the thresher maw realized there _was_ no gooey, edible interior.

The Reaper began firing randomly, as if panicking, lasers erratic and uncoordinated. Could Reapers feel fear? Did this one stand at the edge of existence and contemplate whether anything lay beyond the precipice it was about to fall over?

She hoped the not-knowing scared the daylights out of the thing.

The Reaper found purchase for a moment, but only for a moment. With a heave, Kalros wrenched the Reaper away from whatever it caught on, and dragged it down into her lair.

" _Take that_!" Shepard shouted into the stillness that followed. " _Come on, let's finish this and get the hell out of here._ "

" _You think someone was recording that?_ " Vega asked, (Vega: dazedly).

" _I hope so! Can you imagine something like that on the Extranet?_ "

EDI found herself smiling as she closed the door, the last one to abandon the viewpoint which, she realized, Cortez had held extraordinarily stable for the sake of the recording. "I have recorded the battle. Perhaps the crew would like to watch it when we get back?"


	283. Coda

Author's Note: It's Shepard's birthday! So here are a couple extra chapters. ^_^

-J-

"Mordin, how're we doing?" Shepard demanded as she made her way into the Shroud facility. She ground to a halt as soon as she picked out the scientist among the control panels.

The impact with Kalros had clearly damaged something—or several somethings—for in the moments between the fight and arriving at the facility things had begun to give way. The hit had been a solid one, but it hadn't looked that bad from where she'd been standing.

"Cure ready, loaded for dispersal in two minutes. Procedure traumatic for Eve, but not lethal. Maelon's research invaluable," Mordin announced.

Well, at least some good came out of it. Especially when Eve said she would go through it again if it helped. Shepard just hoped Maelon—wherever he was—wouldn't take the cure personally and go back into the science business.

"Her survival fortunate," Mordin rambled as he worked. "Will stabilize new government should Wrex get any ideas. Good match. Promising future for krogan."

Shepard hadn't considered how ideas of 'family' would develop, only that the current system would eventually become inoperative. "So you wanna tell me why the facility is falling apart?" she asked, frowning at the Shroud.

"Would have missed that. Artimec wing lost fighters. One or two fighters lost in Shroud. Also, Kalros."

Shepard determined that he meant 'also, Kalros damaged the facility' not 'also, Kalros ate one of Artimec's fighters.' "Let's—damn!" the ground shook as an explosion overhead send debris flying.

"Oh, that is _not_ good…" Vega muttered, shaking his head.

"Vega! There's a Tomkah that way. Get it warmed up."

The marine immediately scrambled to do so.

"Should get going, too," Mordin prompted.

Something cold filled Shepard's guts, which immediately tightened until they hurt. "What?"

Mordin sighed and then sniffed. "Control room at top of Shroud tower. Must take elevator up." He gestured off-handedly to the elevator in question.

Shepard's eyes widened, her mouth falling open as she looked up at the tower. The Shroud, by now, was conspicuously smoking. "We're going up there?"

Mordin stopped work for a moment. "Manual access required. Have to counteract STG sabotage. Ensure cure disperse properly." Then, after a pause and another sniff, "Nothing you can do here. _I_ am going up there. _You_ get to Tomkah with Vega."

"This whole place is coming apart!" Shepard barked. "There has to be another way."

"If other way, would take it. Remote bypass? Impossible—STG countermeasures in place. Besides, no time to adjust cure for temperature variance. Spare you other science. No cure dispersal? Inconceivable—didn't come this far to fail…no other way. Now, get to Tomkah. Explosions likely to be…problematic."

Shepard's feet seemed rooted to the ground or made of lead. It was like leaving Ash on Virmire all over again…

Mordin entered a final command on the console before calmly walking toward the elevator.

"Mordin—"

"Shepard." Mordin turned around in the elevator compartment, studying her. "Need to do this. My project. My work. My cure. My responsibility." He sniffed. "…would have liked to run tests on the seashells."

Shepard took a half step back, forcing her throat to unlock. "Hope you come back as a beach bum. With a really nice beach."

Mordin smiled. "Then kill Reapers. Otherwise…" He shuddered theatrically. "…back as jellyfish." He hit the control panel, the doors snapping shut.

Shepard swallowed hard then forced herself to turn on her heel. Mordin's voice rang in her head, not his goodbye, but another conversation from a less dangerous moment.

 _I am the very model of a scientist salarian…_

Deaths had become hard for her to deal with since Ash's on Virmire. She almost ached for the days when she could truly compartmentalize, could feel the loss, could grieve…but with a sense of distance to buffer it, to keep it from sticking to her. She didn't have that anymore. Or maybe it just came from letting people get close to her. It wouldn't have mattered at one point…but it did now, and now she had to deal with it.

 _I've studied species turian, asari and batarian._

Another explosion rocked her footing, sending her stumbling towards the Tomkah. She caught herself on the door's frame and levered herself in, pulling the safety harness into place and cinching it up a slightly as she could.

 _I'm quite good at genetics as a subset of biology—_

"Mordin's not coming," she announced to the windshield in response to Vega's questioning look.

Vega didn't question this and he didn't hesitate. He set the Tomkah into motion, lurching them forward over terrain so uneven she had to clamp her teeth together or risk damaging them.

— _because I am an expert which I know is a tautology._

"EDI. We're going to lose the Shroud—let me know when my locator's out of debris range," Shepard commanded.

"ETA fifteen seconds," the AI announced. At five, she began counting down.

"Stop the rover," Shepard demanded, slipping out of her harness as Vega brought the vehicle grinding to a halt.

 _My xenoscience studies range from urban to agrarian…_

Shepard fixed her gaze on the Shroud facility which suddenly threw a burst of particles into the atmosphere, like rice at a wedding. It was a rather pretty thing, all those glowing lights. For a few moments and at this distance everything looked alright. Slowly, the cloud of falling particles expanded until she found herself standing in a strange parody of falling snow.

 _I am the very model of a scientist salarian._

Suddenly, high on the Shroud—the control room, she just knew it—an explosion sent the facility falling into itself, shattering and peeling into long lines of rubble. The collapse was simple, just the drag of gravity on a structure too compromised to support its own weight.

But the cure was dispersed. Mordin got the job done, and she knew what he would have said: _had to be me. Somebody else might have gotten it wrong._

She should have asked him about the rest of the song.


	284. Synthesize

"Wait a second!" Garrus' guts went cold as realization grabbed him by the liver and _yanked_. "Put the Kodiak down! Right now!" he shot out a hand to grab Cortez by the shoulder, remembering later than usual that talons and ball/socket joints didn't interact well. He loosened his grip a little so as not to hurt the pilot.

"What? Why?" Cortez demanded.

"The cure's dispersed through the atmosphere—take Wrex away now and he'll be out of range! Just do it!" If anyone had told him three years ago that he'd be this worried about a cure for the genophage and its effect on a specific krogan, he'd have laughed.

This was now, and it was repellant to his sense of rightness for Eve to miss out on the cure (even if it was in her immediate best interests to be under a doctor's watchful eye) as it was for Wrex to miss out. She'd given too much to this cure and he knew that she would agree.

"Put us down!" Liara joined in.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm working on it," Cortez answered, his hands moving across the interfaces in a way that suggested he didn't need two people hollering at him once the situation was apparent.

Garrus looked at Wrex, sitting on the floor as he cradled the shivering Eve against his chest. Garrus didn't think he'd ever seen Wrex so careful of another living being.

"We're down," Cortez announced, opening the door. "All ashore who's going ashore." And, with that, he slipped out of his harness.

"I've got her weight," Liara announced as soon as she was on her feet, wrapping Eve in a blue-purple cloud of dark energy.

Wrex didn't need an explanation. He gathered Eve into his arms—krogan were clearly not meant to be able to carry one another as other species could—and carried her out into the open air of Tuchanka.

"I'm fine," Eve said, but her voice had a brittle quality to it that left Garrus deeply uneasy.

"Like hell you are," Wrex growled. Though once they were out of the Tomkah he let her stand on her own. Despite standing under her own power, she continued to lean heavily on him.

"Are you really alright?" Liara asked worriedly, a deep crease of concern etching the space between her eyebrows.

Eve snorted at this. "That's the beauty of redundant organs. Apart from that…I'll be fine in minutes."

Garrus shifted uneasily. They had a good view of the Shroud from here, and everything over there looked quiet.

Suddenly, the Shroud flung up a cloud of particles, the colored energy—or whatever—it emanated turning from a serene greenish color to a bright warm gold. "They did it," Liara breathed.

The cloud expanded quickly, racing through the atmosphere of Tuchanka, evidencing just how fast the facility moved matter from itself at the epicenter across the rest of Tuchanka, a speed one would never guess just by looking at the sluggishly waving cloud of energy.

As the rush of gold passed over them, particles like flakes of ash began to fall, breaking into tiny puffs of golden smoke that vanished rather than accumulating on whatever they touched.

Garrus studied the almost luminescent particles as they dissipated against his armor, bright white-gold against the blue before looking back to the Shroud. It really was pretty—

"Shepard!" he and Liara both shouted for her as the Shroud abruptly crumbled, sliding into itself, splintering and collapsing.

"You're not allowed to die yet!" Wrex bellowed.

"Shepard is already outside the range of debris," EDI announced. "She asked to be notified once her vehicle was clear."

Garrus wasn't the only one to exhale relief. "Link me in, EDI. Shepard? You okay?"

" _We lost Mordin._ "

In that case she definitely wasn't. Garrus found himself shaking his head. Mordin had always defended his genophage work, whatever regrets he had. And now he'd abolished it. Strangely enough, Garrus felt less grief at the man's passing than he expected. Mordin had died free of his chief regret. Not a lot of people could say that.

" _How's Eve?_ "

"Spunky as ever. I think she was going to wallop Wrex on the nose if he didn't put her down," Garrus answered.

A pause, then, " _…good. Wait—you're still on Tuchanka, right?_ " Shepard's voice sharpened as realization caught up with her.

"Of course we are. I've got your back, remember?"

" _Good. Hey Cortez—if Eve's feeling well enough, come get us. The weather's weird._ " The remark lacked something intrinsic to Shepard's usual wry humor, but that wasn't surprising. Still, it was good if she was employing the words if not necessarily the emotion.

Cortez chuckled at this. "Will do, Captain."

Garrus looked over at the two krogan. Although both were facing away from him, he could tell that Eve had undone her veil, the better to breathe in Tuchanka's future. He sincerely hoped it was a future that learned from the past…and in a way good for the krogan _and_ the rest of the galaxy.

Well, what was done was done and the genophage was cured. All he could do was own his part in that decision and the actions that turned it into a fact, and have Shepard's back when the backlash started. Because there would be backlash from people with nothing better to do or worry about.

"We should retrieve Shepard," Eve announced, putting her veil back in place. "The sooner the better."

"Yes we should," Cortez agreed as Wrex helped Eve into the shuttle.

Javik had not left the shuttle at all, merely remained in his corner, eyes closed, arms crossed. Well, this wasn't exactly something he'd been elbow deep in before now so Garrus could hardly fault his disinterest. But from the faint smile—a hard edged sharp thing—playing around the thin line of the Prothean's mouth he was reliving the moments during which they'd killed a Reaper with a thresher maw.

It was a moment worth reliving…and EDI said she recorded it.


	285. Exception

Wrex had been more serious than Shepard thought when he said she was an honorary krogan. Now, apparently, it was time to make the Clan Chief's decision official.

Shepard was just glad there was no weird food involved. She'd worried a little bit about that, given what happened the last time she ritually ate something native to Tuchanka. Forget the runs: she'd ended up adrenaline tripping for days. In this case though, there were no weird roots; she'd proved herself against a thresher maw. It might have been Grunt's right, but her leadership was acknowledged and the kill usually attributed to her.

"We have gathered," Wrex announced, his voice loud and grim, "to strengthen the Clans."

She approved his deliberate use of the plural. Not simply Clan Urdnot, but all the Clans, together. A united krogan. It was a start.

The Hollows rang with his words, echoes sopped up by the assembled krogan—males and females, though the two stood in distinct groups. Wrex stood in front of Shepard, his face to the crowd, her back to it. To his right stood the Shaman and several other males. She wasn't sure, but she thought they might be Shaman belonging to other clans, clans that had already united under Urdnot.

Witnesses.

On Wrex's left stood Eve, and behind her several other females veiled as she was. Fellow Shaman or acolytes, Shepard supposed…though if they were, from what she understood, they didn't represent separate clans. They were krogan. They didn't need dividing lines.

"You stand before me clanless, without roots," Wrex announced.

"Clanless but not rootless," the Shaman put in, his low voice rumbling like thunder. "The Rite was honored and blood was spilled. I have witnessed it. Who would gainsay me?"

No one said a word.

"I have no name for you, so I do not know you," the Shaman said, holding out a knife and sheath in both hands. He pulled the blade free. It looked very old, the blade pitted and rough. "But I know strength, and for krogan, strength is always known." He sheathed the blade then held the knife out to her, handle first.

Shepard took it and fixed it into her belt. "May my strength burn my name into the Reckoning."

"You stand before me _krantt_ -less, without comrades," Wrex continued.

This wasn't strictly true. Standing at the back of the ground-floor assembly—as observers, not participants—were those members of the Normandy who elected to come, which turned out to be all of them. Shepard wasn't sure how she felt about it, but from the interested expressions she was glad to offer them a chance at seeing something new. For the ones bursting with pride—Cortez and Vega particularly…well. It made her feel a little less self-conscious, surrounded by armored krogan while she wore only her dress blues (and one shield unit).

" _Krantt_ -less," Eve took up, "but not without comrades. All here owe you a debt; all here must honor it when the hour strikes. All here have witnessed it. Does anyone deny it?"

Silence again.

"I have no name for you, though you are well-known. In recognition of the debt owed, I give you a name, a name by which all here will know you, a name under which your strength will be added to the Reckoning. You are called Shepard. Thus are you known to us." Eve produced a small piece of stone on a thong, scraped flat but for a series of gouged lines and squiggles—her name in the old lettering, Shepard supposed.

She accepted it and slipped it over her head, the pale rock standing out starkly against the blue of her uniform. From what she understood, her adoption was useful for many reasons—both to her and to Clan Urdnot. She was human, firstly. Secondly, there hadn't been an adoption overseen by the Shaman of the male _and_ female clans in centuries. It was symbolic: a return of the females to politics and the running of the krogan people.

"You've been a friend to the krogan people," Wrex announced, his expression grim. "And a sister to me. As long as the krogan last, it will be remembered that the name Shepard means hero!"

A cheer went up from the crowd, the higher sounds of humans in the back mingling with the guttural, hoarse voices of the krogan. "You have comrades," Wrex declared, and was met by cheers again. "And a name!"

"She-pard, She-pard, She-pard!"

"You have strength, and roots that run deep!"

More cheers from the crowd.

"Today, I give you a clan. May you strengthen it as it strengthens you." With that, Wrex draped a swath of rough-woven cloth across her shoulders, little more than a shawl, dyed the same red as his headplate with the Urdnot clan markings on it.

Shepard swallowed once, glad her collar hid the gesture. "I woke today without name, or comrades, or clan. Today…I am Urdnot Shepard."

"Turn, Urdnot Shepard. Know your brothers and let them know you," the Shaman concluded.

Shepard turned to face the assembly, intensely aware that however they followed the forms for this new ceremony—new mingling with old, tradition and innovation—they weren't all convinced. That was fine. She knew better than to hope for galactic popularity. Whatever doubts the krogan might have entertained, the fact remained that she—apparently krogan attributed _krantt_ victories to the battlemaster—helped cured the genophage. Most people seemed to chalk the dead Reaper up to her, too—something Eve had merely snickered at and waved Shepard to simply accept.

Shepard blinked once, then pulled the knife from her belt, holding it high over her head. Putting the full force of her lungs into her voice, she bellowed, "I AM KROGAN!"

"Even if you're still a squishy one," Wrex added from behind her, though only those nearest to him would hear. Everything else—including the sounds of the Normandy's crew—was drowned out by the answering bellows and cheers from the assembled krogan.


	286. Chivvy

"And now, you come with us," Bakara declared quietly, putting a hand on Shepard's shoulder. "You," she directed to the members of the Alliance preparing to leave, "may have your captain back in three days."

"Three _days_?" Shepard asked, appalled. "Eve—"

Bakara pinned her with a look that almost wilted Shepard. "Yes. I'll explain in the truck, but I hope you know I wouldn't detain you if it wasn't important." It was important…for Shepard herself. Not that the girl would accept that as a reason in and of itself. "Come along, little sister." With that, Bakara chivvied the uncertain Shepard along, herding her as she might a reluctant varren.

Shepard sighed, then cleared her throat, rolling her shoulders as she inclined to the inevitable. "See you in three days! Tell Joker no joyrides! Garrus is in charge!"

Joker's sarcasm mingled with general acceptance of the three-day furlough.

"So, what are we doing?" Shepard asked as she and Bakara reached the Tomkah that would take them back to the female camp.

"First, we're going back to the female camp. Second, Wrex probably hasn't explained everything to you that you need to know," Bakara answered comfortably as she settled in one of the seats. "But that's alright. He'd get things mixed up or forget something moderately important and probably confuse you more than anything else. You stand in a season of fire; I would recommend that any female in such a season undergo a ritual of healing. That's the third point: a ritual of healing before you throw yourself back into this war."

Shepard shifted in her seat, absently reaching for the handhold when the truck hit a rough patch. "…okay."

Bakara resisted the urge to chuckle. It couldn't be clearer Shepard was already confused. Bakara thought she understood why: it made good political sense for Wrex to forge a bond with Shepard. The rest of the galaxy would take pause, but it tied Wrex closer to the genophage's cure: the woman who championed the cause among the aliens, who fought and bled and charged a Reaper on foot to make the cure happen—and living heroes were always more impressive than dead ones—was someone the krogan would respect on principle.

How that 'respect' manifested was a matter of debate and personal interpretation, but affiliating her with Wrex in this fashion would spare her some of the more ridiculous expressions. Shepard could understand being a political gimmick.

What she didn't understand was that she benefitted from joining the Clans. And she couldn't understand that without a time of reflection and immersion. So, for three days let the girl experience being part of a family again, let her speak of the pains behind her eyes to those who knew pain themselves, let her be the first human the children—and most of the females—would ever see, and let her see the kinder, gentler side of the people she'd saved. Let her put aside the burdens of leadership and command for a time, to be among other females and children. Let her bask in the warmth of belonging to a family—or at least a close community _like_ family—again.

"You need to be strong. The Reapers aren't going to wipe out everyone in three days," Bakara observed pragmatically.

"So…what's this ritual entail?" Shepard asked, shifting nervously.

"No strange roots, if that's what you're worried about."

"That _was_ what I was worried about," she admitted ruefully. "I was coming off those roots for a week."

Several of the other females regarded Shepard with interest, but they held their questions. Questions came later, just as that part of the story would come later.

"In short, you'll speak, and a select group will listen. You don't know us, and we don't know you. How can we call one another family with so many unknowns?"

Shepard chewed this over in silence for some time.

No, Shepard wasn't one to speak of her pain. But the heart was like a jug, and it filled over time. Joy lessened the pain, but pain always filled the vessel. The krogan learned long ago how to empty some of the negative contents of the heart. Shepard _had_ learned to use her pain to touch that of others, to connect with them. That was a rare gift, but she didn't know how to balance herself after doing so. She took in others' pain and carried it.

Well, releasing some of her own would help. At the very least, she would have the comfort that no one here would talk, would share parts of a story that shouldn't be shared. There was no fear of words getting back to her crew (who needed her strength), her superiors (who needed her whole and strong), or to the media (who were like varren—pets or pests, each to its own).

And it wouldn't go amiss for Shepard to be fussed over a bit, herself. Even if she was strange and alien, some of the older females would simply see a child staggering under a grown-up's burden.

"I suppose you can't," Shepard answered guardedly.

"Trust me," Bakara leaned forward, touching Shepard's knee. "I am responsible, as much as any one person can be, for the wellbeing of the females in the camp. That includes you."

Again, she'd given Shepard something Shepard didn't know what to do with.

"The males _should_ call you Shepard. They can only know you so well. But us?" Bakara indicated the rest of the females. "We're more familiar. What's you first name, Shepard? And will you let us use it?"

Shepard shrugged. "It's Jalissa."

"You say it like it doesn't matter," Rhos observed, not critically, but with some surprise.

Shepard shrugged again. "The military relies on surnames. It's just a habit I got used to."

Rhos nodded, but didn't make further inquiries. Most of them would probably be answered later, anyway.

The rest of the drive took place in silence, the truck's occupants taking the opportunity to doze lightly.


	287. Newness

Author's Note: And because my birthday was this week, have a couple (more) extra chapters. ^_^

-J-

Shepard hadn't known what to expect from the female camp.

It was underground, as Clan Urdnot's capital was. The capital, which was mostly open space, purpose of the space delineated by the artefacts scattered about, with cots here and there to denote sleeping areas, sometimes someone having piled rubble together to form a dwelling. The female camp reminded Shepard of pictures she'd seen in history books: yards of cloth fastened to stakes interspersed with large chunks of rubble to delineate the boundaries of the camp. The camp centered around a well, tents in rings radiating out. Coarse-woven, most were dyed rusty shades of crimson and burnt orange. She suspected the blue tents and the green tents had special significance, because they seemed clustered together nearest the well.

Early though it was, krogan swarmed about attending village chores. Children moved in herds—sometimes peppered with domestic varren—under the careful eyes of krogan who, given their slowness, were quite old.

She'd never really thought about what life in the female camp was like, mostly because she never expected to see for herself. She was an outsider, and had no business there. Curiosity was not a good reason. But there was something neat and clean about the camp's setup, wholesome even if it lacked the things she would normally associate with 'wholesome': trees, grass, that sort of thing.

"For the next three days, you're not Captain Shepard. Nor are you Urdnot Shepard—that's too much weight to bring into the home." Eve said gently, putting an arm around her shoulders. "For the next three days, you are Jalissa, and you belong to us. So," she propelled Shepard to one of the rusty red tents, pushing the flap open. "Shar?"

A young krogan female, who looked very nervous, jumped up from the mat upon which she sat.

"Shar, here's the new older sister. Get her changed and freshened up while I assemble the others. Jalissa—she doesn't have a translator, so I'm afraid conversation will have to wait."

"Hang on." Normally, an omnitool translational suite wouldn't feature krogan language as a basic option. However, with the number of krogan Shepard had interacted with over the years—a small number, but enough—she had invested in the add-on. "Can you understand me?" the program fed the words back.

Shar's face broke into a relieved smile. "Yes," she answered, voice higher than most krogan.

Eve said nothing, merely patted Shepard's shoulder and withdrew.

-J-

Shar watched the Auntie withdraw, her unease much abated by the human's device. Shar studied the human; she'd never seen one before and found herself wondering how someone could be so strong as this tiny alien apparently was. She found the strangely flat features, the bulbous nose, the tiny eyes, off-putting.

But this was the human known as Shepard, whose name had reached the Hearth even before…

Shar _knew_ she should stick to her duties, that questions came later, but she couldn't stop herself. "Is—is the genophage really cured?"

She remembered the beautiful strangeness falling from the sky, strange and airy, how everyone had gone out into the strangeness rather than recoil from it. She remembered the indefinable scent of the strangeness, how it seemed to pass through her skin when she tried to cup one of the feathers for a better look. The scent wasn't as pretty as the golden feathers.

The human's face was full of tiny movements. Not fidgets, but if this was her face at rest, how difficult communication between members of her kind must be! "We're confident," she answered, her strange gargled words rendered comprehensible by her omnitool. She sounded confident. "I think—I think it's going to be okay."

Her smile was recognizable as a smile, at least.

"The Auntie wanted me to get you ready. We shouldn't keep her and the others waiting." Shar picked up one of the garments from the sleeping mat. She was glad she didn't sound as excited as she really was…excited, but still a little afraid: Shar had just reached the age to place and accept breeding requests. It was a frightening age for a young female, because it meant finding out whether or not she would ever hold her own living child. On the one hand there was hope; on the other, a terrible fear.

The fear still nibbled at her, but hope seemed stronger since the strangeness from the sky.

The human—Jalissa—regarded the garments as if she needed an explanation.

"I'm not supposed to keep you," Shar said, holding up the garments. "You should wear these. I'll make them fit."

At first, Shar thought Jalissa was simply shy, but upon understanding she wasn't to remain in her blue clothes—such strange garments!—she began peeling them off.

Shar tried not to stare, instead considering the different articles of clothing. The cloth was very fine, a little stiff to the touch, the gold detailing bright and shiny. She folded them as best she could and set them side, threading her bone needle.

Like Shar herself, Jalissa wore the rusty orange of a female of breeding age who had yet to produce offspring. She seemed to swim in the unfamiliar garments, but a few hasty stitches here and there, mostly hidden by the broad sash she tied around Shepard's strangely narrow waist, made her presentable, although her dark shoes looked a bit odd with the sack-like krogan garb.

"Come." Shar held out her hand. Her instructions were explicit: treat her like one of your younger sisters, even if she's older. "They're waiting."

It seemed to take effort for Jalissa to take her hand, as if the human wasn't accustomed to such things. However, once the touch connected, she seemed more comfortable. "Who's waiting?"

"The Aunties and some of the elders. No more than six or eight, I should think," Shar answered.

Jalissa seemed to think better of further questions, opting to follow in silence.

Shar led the way to the blue tent where the meeting would occur.


	288. Confide

Shepard entered the blue tent, feeling highly uncomfortable.

Within the tent sat eight females, one of whom held an infant in her lap, another of whom held a toddler who sucked on its fist as it regarded her. Shar followed her in, closing the flap behind, and settling just inside the entrance to block it should anyone try to come in.

Three of the females, counting Eve, sat on low stools, while the rest sat tailor-fashion on the braided rug that covered the floor. Hanging from the ceiling poles was a brazier which released a musky smell Shepard wasn't sure she liked.

"You look like you expect us to execute you," Eve chuckled.

"In my experience, the unexpected is usually painful."

"There's such a thing as healing pain; that should be the only one you experience today," one of the other women—possibly a junior shaman or acolyte, for her blue garb was not as extensively embroidered as Eve's—observed.

That didn't make her feel better.

"Although this is a formal occasion, it is—as the most important usually are—an intimate one." Eve reached up and undid the veil on her headdress, as did the two acolytes. "So come, little sister," Eve patted the ground near her feet. "Sit at my knee."

Shepard uneasily did so. Sitting where directed put her facing the other five females and Shar, who looked excited, possibly at being included.

Eve's hand settled heavily on Shepard's shoulder. "It's unusual for adults to be adopted into a clan, did you know that?" she asked.

Shepard considered. "No, I didn't."

"It's very unusual. And you're quite unusual, yourself. We know each other, you see. We share many of the same hopes, the same pains, the same stories," Eve narrated.

Something cold seemed to fill Shepard's guts.

"You, though? You're new. Strange. That's no way for a family to work: strangers connected by ceremony, without really knowing one another. So I have gathered two of my sisters to bear witness, and a handful of others who are willing to make you part of the Hearth."

Shepard shifted uneasily, and Eve's hand on her shoulder tightened.

The females spoke in turn, giving their names—and, in the case of the two mothers, the names of their children. Shepard sensed the discomfort over her alien-ness, but she also sensed a determination to put aside this discomfort.

"You know our story—the story of the krogan. You know our sorrow, why only two of us sit here with babes in our arms. Now, you must share your story." Although she phrased it in the imperative, Shepard sensed that there was no hurry. These people had cleared their schedules. If it took three days for her to crack and comply—no, not _comply_ , that was the wrong word—then they would wait three days.

Shepard sighed, running a hand through her hair.

"You've done so much for us," Brell observed. "Why are you afraid to let us know you?"

Something in Shepard's throat tightened. "I survive by letting my past stay past. Quiet and interred."

"If you fear the pain of it so much, I wouldn't call it quiet and interred," Shar observed diffidently.

Shepard sighed, anxiety thrumming in her veins. The pragmatic corner of her mind pointed out that it wasn't as if these krogan were going to tell the galaxy where her soft spots were. But if she hadn't elected to speak to professional psychologists, why would she want to talk to anyone if she didn't have to?

Because these women weren't looking to _diagnose_ her.

Was this what people felt when she tried to 'help'? Because maybe she should back off, if that was the case…

It was weird finding herself on the other side of this kind of conversation. She sighed again. "In twenty-one eighty—"

"I'm sorry," Eve interrupted gently. "But that's where Shepard's story starts. Start at the beginning."

Shepard turned to look up at Eve, found the krogan regarding her kindly, but with an expression of consternation. "Is this important to you?"

"Yes. I've spoken with you at length, remember? You use your experiences of pain to connect with others, to make common ground. We do the same, sharing our pain and burdens so no one staggers beneath more than she can carry." Pain and sadness laced the words. That was how it worked in theory, but a mental image of a krogan wandering desolately into the wastes of Tuchanka, unable to bear life infertile played across Shepard's mind's eye. "You carry so much; a galaxy's burden. Let us share this least little part of it. I promise, there's nothing in your past that could overwhelm us. Nothing that would make us judge you harshly."

"I suspect you'll find us kinder than you are yourself, in this regard," Rhos, the other Shaman, observed.

Shepard flinched inwardly.

The oldest of the women, Hram, frowned. "Where is your birth-clan, child?" Her tone suggested she already knew…and the lack of rustling surprise at the penetrating question told Shepard most of the krogan suspected as much.

"They were killed," she answered stiltedly. "Slavers attacked my colony."

Grim disgust at the word 'slavers' suffused the room.

"How many were your clan?" Shar asked.

Shepard closed her eyes. Answering questions was easier than trying to string together a narrative. "My parents and five siblings. Most of them younger. I was about your age when it happened. Most of my friends and the people I knew were either killed or taken. I survived by luck. Killed the batarian who killed my dad—my father—and I just…ran."

"What was it like?" Rhos asked. "Your homeworld, I mean."

Shepard considered; she didn't think anyone ever asked her that before. "Green, mostly. Except in the autumn. Then it was gold as far as you could see. Crops rippling in the wind. And in the spring, the tilled earth would be rich brown, until the seeds started sprouting. Then the hills just looked moldy."


	289. Catharsis

It was as if some part of her had always wanted to tell her own story, but only to the right people. From the moment she described Mindoir, the rest of the story came out in gluts and rivers.

With the story, came the horrible realization that she no longer remembered her youngest brothers' faces. Quinlan and Jonas were strangely…blank. Even the others were beginning to fade, their clarity finally diminished by her willful consignment of them to a place where she didn't have to think about them, because it hurt so much to do so.

Then came the tears over having lost something without realizing it. It hurt worse to know she had willed herself to forget their faces.

Then came the tears she'd never shed, because she'd never trusted anyone enough to admit that Jalissa Shepard hadn't really survived Mindoir. Basic had been allowed to destroy the last vestiges of that happy girl so that the survivor could actualize. Shepard didn't think she'd ever really mourned the loss of her younger self, but here, now, she did weep for the girl that hadn't really survived, except as an occasional glimmer, like the occasional band of sunlight on shady waters.

The tears fell on Hram's willing shoulder, causing dark patches on the cloth there, and it was nice, for the moment, to feel smaller than someone else, to let someone else help carry a burden she didn't realize she'd held, how many bodies she carried with her.

But under their gentle listening and gentler prompting, Shepard began to wonder if this wasn't the first step in putting the bodies down...and while the idea frightened her, lest she forget more than she already had, part of her was willing to let go.

She told them about joining the Alliance, the fear that stagnation would put her name on the list of survivors who didn't survive. About her great friend O'Conner, Fitzpatrick the cat, and about losing both of them. About the long, cold, empty existence that followed, a life empty but for service, and all the service she could speak about.

Then the Normandy, with a crew that suited her as none had before, and where someone's gentle breath had blown life back into the cold embers of her soul. It did her weepy state of mind some good, helped her rebalance, to address the little romance to Shar. What girl in her late teens didn't get a kick out of a forbidden romance story? And maybe, because the concept of love—poorly as Shepard sometimes felt she understood it—of two people belonging to one another consistently, seemed to entrance the girl. So she shared that part of the story, too: how quiet moments and friendship had become something more.

She shared the victories and the losses. The parts people hadn't wanted to believe because it complicated their galaxy.

She told them about her death, shared the sickening, horrific details of death by suit puncture, while terror for her crew echoed in the back of her mind. Then the terror of waking up in a strange place, with strange people doing goodness only knew what to her, then the blackness again.

They didn't question her about being dead, asked none of the curious and tactless questions she'd come to expect. They asked her if she believed herself to be dead.

She told them the truth, because she didn't think anyone else could accept the answer, and some part of her desperately wanted to scream it, now that its usual quiescence had been disturbed. "Sometimes, I don't know the answer to that, myself."

Hram took her hand silently, stubby fingers reassuring.

She spoke of the Collectors, of the deep, driving anger they inspired, how she hated them more than the Reapers at that point in her life, because they were allowed to do what the galaxy's residents were not: to inflict Mindoir on others, again and again, to tear apart families and disappear, free and clear, because no one wanted to chase myths, even when the myth left gaping holes in the lives of thousands of survivors and family not present. She spoke of her disillusionment with the Alliance and the Council, finally spoke aloud, to listening ears, everything she'd never spoken, out of loyalty or simply practicality.

She shared her fresh round of losses, the knowledge of having missed two years, and what those two years of absence cost her. The ruined shell of Garrus she'd found on Omega. The estrangement with Liara. The loss of the man she loved, and how much part of her had wanted to haul off and slug him for blaming her for _dying_. She'd been so alone, and so afraid, there at the end. She spoke of her doubts, her fears, the aching, bone-deep loneliness which eased only because she forced herself to put the issue aside to deal with it if, and only if, she survived.

She spoke of ending the Collectors, felt the echoes of triumph, of the blazing anger that had carried her forward to find the proto-Reaper in its disgusting nascent state, and how she had aborted its life before it could become the monster it was designed to be.

She spoke of chasing enemies with old friends, and of Aratoht, of the decisions and necessities that still haunted her if she held still long enough.

She shared her gentle imprisonment, the lonely, fretful days of _waiting_ , all the way through Mars and Sur'kesh—the parts she could talk about—all the way to the Citadel before coming to Tuchanka to ensure the genophage's end.

She spoke of the hope of healing what was broken with the man she loved, and the fear that she would trust again…and end up hurt again.

It was, perhaps, the first time anyone heard the whole story, or close enough to it, of Jalissa Shepard. And when she finally felt she had finished, all Shepard could do was sink into an exhausted sleep.


	290. Romantic Notions

"Is it true that aliens take only one partner?" Shar asked, not for the first time.

After her catharsis to the gaggle of women the night before, Shepard found herself attached to Shar, who would be able to walk her through a part in the duties all female krogan engaged in to keep the camp in order.

It looked to her like they were preparing for a festival, and she couldn't say that surprised her.

"That's a really broad generalization," Shepard answered. "Some do. Some try and hook up with as many people as they can."

"Why?" Shar asked, her eyes widening.

Shepard chuckled. "Why not, I guess?"

"What about you? You have a mate somewhere."

Shepard but her lip. "I kind of used to."

"Kind of used to?" the krogan crumpled her flat features as if the answer was quite unsatisfactory.

Shepard had to laugh again, aware of the watery quality to it. None of her laughs so far had been happy; more like the remnants of hysterical. "I was going to-to bond for life with someone," she said, wondering at the inefficiency of language. To anyone else, she would have said she was engaged, and that would have been enough. But krogan didn't have engagements or weddings, so what would the words even mean to this young girl? "But when I was…injured…like I was, he got word that I was dead."

"He was _angry_ you came back?" Shar blinked. "But…wouldn't he be glad you weren't dead?"

Shepard honestly couldn't say. She only knew how devastating loss of loved ones could be. "Anyway. We're rebuilding the relationship. I think we're trying to get back together." Even as she said it, something cold clamped on the hope. It seemed like too much to hope for.

"What's he like, this male of yours?" Shar asked. "Do you have a picture of him on your gadget?"

"I don't carry holos of my loved ones," Shepard answered. "It's a training thing: in case it ever fell into the wrong hands, no one can find out who matters."

"Oh."

"He's…kind, most of the time. Very patient." The two little descriptions left Shepard's heart aching. "Why so interested? Is there a certain krogan male you've got your eyes on?"

If she'd been human, Shepard would have bet her Collector particle beam that Shar would have blushed red as a beet. "Oh…" the young woman fidgeted uneasily.

"Come on, who am I going to tell?"

Shar considered this. "Promise you won't."

Shepard was about to teasingly promise to pinkie-promise, if it made Shar feel better, but realized that the concept wouldn't mean anything to her. "I promise."

"Your son, Grunt," Shar said jerkily.

Shepard stopped walking. "My _son_ Grunt?' she repeated blankly.

Shar chuckled, probably at Shepard's expression. "…he is your son, isn't he? When he gave his lineage the first time he was here, he said he was. So I heard…" she added hastily, as if to dispel the notion that she'd been listening in where she shouldn't.

"Well…after a fashion, I guess he is…" Though how the translation from 'midwife'—which seemed far more accurate—to 'mother' got garbled, she didn't know. The idea wrong-footed her. But it also touched her that Grunt would bother including her in his family tree when his genetics were distilled from many famous forebears.

"He's different," Shar mused.

"Well, alien upbringing." At the very least, she hoped he'd learned good manners aboard the Normandy…then she snorted at herself. That sounded like exactly the kind of thing mothers hoped for their sons. Hadn't she heard her own mother express that hope about Kian, when he stood on the verge of being an independent adult?

"How are visits by the males conducted?" Shepard asked.

"Well, first, they have to have at least one breeding request. They can't just come barging in here," Shar mused. "Then, under the Aunties' supervision, they have to make themselves ceremonially clean. Then they stay in one of the green tents, and the ladies who are interested take turns visiting after they undergo the Blessing by the Aunties. Grunt didn't know he was supposed to confine himself to the tent—the males aren't allowed to just wander around. I met him by the well. He-he asked if I wanted help drawing the water before an Auntie chivvied him back into the tent, telling him he wasn't supposed to leave it." Again, Shepard had the impression Shar might have blushed had she been of another species. "I remember he used to sit just inside the entrance when he didn't have a lady with him, just watching what we were doing."

"Grunt is nice, isn't he?" Shepard asked, at a loss for what to say.

"I thought so. I wasn't…you see, I wasn't old enough to see him, the last time he was here."

Something clicked for Shepard. Not only was Shar apparently old enough now, but with the genophage lifted, she didn't need to fear a stillborn result of an affectionate (on her side, at least) union. Most young women of Shar's relative age tended to entertain somewhat romantic notions…and perhaps fewer on Tuchanka would have to lose them altogether.

"You're a sweet girl," Shepard said quietly. "I hope you two will have a chance. And like I said, my lips are sealed."

Shar nodded, a grateful smile playing around her lips. "Tell me about your homeworld. Please?"

Shepard shrugged, thinking back to Mindoir, pushing past memories of smoke, ash, and death. "It was an agricultural world, for the most part. Really green during the growing season, really gold during the harvest."

"Do you miss it at all?"

"No." It was even hurting less to remember her family, who seemed to be blurring in her mind when she did have to think about them. She wondered if it was a good thing, indicative of healing, or not. Her memory for faces was pretty good…but then again, theirs were faces she hadn't seen in a very long time.


	291. Festival

Shepard had attended a festival among the males of Clan Urdnot and its supporting clans after Grunt's Rite—thresher steaks, lots of ryncol, and a lot of story-swapping. When one lived for a few centuries, one built up a real store of such things to share. It had been, in some ways, a rowdier version of some military functions she'd attended over the years, and when a fight broke out towards dawn, everyone had simply laughed and thrown food at the aggressors as if it was no big deal.

At the very least, the part hadn't ended in a funeral. Far from it: after a while, the onlookers began shouting advice and criticisms, as if addressing the repair of some kind of machinery rather than a fight. Once she got used to the idea that the fight was really just a squabble, she rather enjoyed the banter.

She hadn't really wondered what a festival among the females would be like, mostly because her interactions with any krogan females were so limited. She was having that question answered now.

The preparations which began the morning of the first full day she'd spent with the females came to fruition that night. By that time, she no longer felt like she was fighting with her krogan garments, although there sometimes seemed so much of the sack-like dress. Shar had explained that the color mattered: children wore green; women of breeding age who had not produced offspring—those essentially waiting to discover if they were capable—wore reddish brown; while the Aunties—what the krogan females called their shaman—wore blue. All the other adults, barren or fertile, wore an earthy brown.

Shepard had been correct in assuming the blue and green tents held significance: the blue tents were inhabited by the Aunties, the green were where visiting males were sequestered. Four males—including Wrex—had arrived at the camp that morning. Shepard suspected Eve had something in mind, for although she was the first to see him—an Auntie stayed quite busy, and was considered essential personnel—she eyed the steady trickle of ladies approaching the tent with some amusement, as if waiting for the punchline of a joke.

Shepard hadn't asked what the joke was, but from the way Eve's amusement kept increasing, it must be a real rib-breaker of a joke.

The males, of course, weren't allowed to join the festivities. But Shepard had taken advantage of the lull in visitors seeing Wrex to chat through the tent with him. He seemed quite pleased with the status quo, citing it was a tough job, but someone had to do it.

He sounded pretty exhausted, though.

The festival itself—a fusion between celebration over the death of an enemy and a fertility rite usually given to young females Shar's age, but which was also for Shepard's benefit, since she hadn't had the rites administered—began at sundown. The somber beginning left Shepard pondering. Dr. Chakwas and Miranda both were quite certain she couldn't have kids of her own—the human body wasn't meant to be resuscitated as hers had been. Shepard took a far simpler view of the matter: the dead cannot pass life. She listened with half an ear as she tried to decide if this bothered her or not.

On the whole, she decided 'not,' mostly because she wasn't sure she would be a good mother because she wasn't sure she could give up her work. And even if the Reapers were defeated, and everyone lived upbeat-ever-after, there would always be a need for Spectres, and probably there would always be someone who needed her to do something.

Or she hoped so. She didn't know what she would do if she found herself suddenly and wholly irrelevant.

But she accepted the rites with good grace, because it seemed culturally important that she do so. And it wouldn't do to alienate this strangely accepting group of people by refusing something that cost her no pain and no trouble. All she had to do, more or less, was sit there and let Eve speak her piece.

Then the food came out, and the conversation kicked up. It reminded her a little of autumn on Mindoir, when families sometimes teamed up to help one another with harvests. The most vivid was the next farm over and their orchards, eating chicken and dumplings, with fresh fruit pies and cobblers under the velvety night sky.

She recognized the thresher steak—noting as she did that the women seemed to prefer it more rare than the males did—but nothing else. There was something like mashed potatoes, and something else like sweet potatoes, all of which had spices and flavors totally alien to her.

When asked about why she wasn't eating anything (by krogan standards), she explained her hesitation after her last experience with krogan roots—which resulted in much amusement among the females—and her preference not to find herself so hopped-up again. So she had a little to start, in hopes that if she _did_ get something weird it wouldn't get as bad as it did that one time.

After the meal came music from drums, flutes, and a stringed instrument reminiscent of a zither…and dancing. It reminded her of vid-clips of festival dances she'd seen as a younger woman: a long, snaking line of dancers moving between the tents, exuberant and somehow…defiant. As if giving the memory of the genophage the finger as a final farewell salute, as if refusing to give it, and fear, and despair any more thought than was absolutely necessary would be giving it too much attention. The lessons would remain, but the shadow causing them was gone.

It reminded her of something Okeer had said: _I will inflict the greatest indignity one can upon an enemy. To be_ _ignored_ _._

At that point, Shepard had no more time to think and reflect. A laughing Shar bounced up, grabbed her by the hand, and dragged her to join the dancers.


	292. Parting

Bakara studied Shepard as the Captain pinched the bridge of her nose. The festival of the night before was over and now the krogan had begun mobilizing. No one had slept much—there would be time for the krogan to rest in transit—and Shepard least of all.

It had been a good experience for the children to see this new krogan—a krogan by her deeds and not by her birth, a female who warred with the best of males, and was apparently blind to divisions of 'clan.' After all, wasn't her _krantt_ comprised of many different peoples—asari, Prothean, turian, the late salarian, synthetic, many humans of different sorts?

New ideas were not something the krogan much concerned themselves with—there had been little reason. But Shepard was a powerful example of newness, and the krogan needed new ideas now more than ever.

It showed some progress that although tolerated, Shepard's turian brother had suffered little worse than dubious glares during those few times he'd been on Tuchanka. Surprisingly, the turian had done well. Whatever popular mindset said of turians, Bakara could tell that Garrus was an exemplar of the good of his species.

Just as Shepard was for hers.

Not that Shepard looked like an exemplar _right now_. In fact, Bakara thought, despite Shepard's adamant refusal to drink anything stronger than water, it looked as though the Captain had been thoroughly worked over. Now, in the morning light prior to departure, Bakara could see the lines of weariness, the deep weariness that sat in the bones, finally beginning to ease. She still looked tired, though.

"Captain, before you go," Bakara declared, studying the shuttle that had come to collect her.

"Yes, Eve—ah, Bakara?" Shepard blinked several times, then rubbed her eyes again. Red-rimmed and bloodshot, dark circles appeared beneath them. It would only get worse, Bakara knew; she took comfort from knowing Shepard's _krantt_ was both strong and dedicated to her.

"I want you to have this," Bakara produced the soft thresher-leather bag with its precious contents. "To remind you that even in the darkest places there is always a way out." She did not add 'if you can find it.' It went without saying. It also brought a fatalistic tone to what was supposed to be encouraging: _if you can find it—though it might not be pleasant, or the out that you want._

Shepard, looking perplexed, took the bag, loosening the neck and slipping the contents free. Her expression went slack with surprise. "This is—"

"Yes. Take it with you—you mustn't refuse." It looked like Shepard was going to, would resist taking such a personal item. "You can never have too many such reminders."

Shepard's hand closed over the crystal, the pale yellow facets glinting between Shepard's delicate, bony fingers. "Thank you, Bakara."

"Go, little sister, and fight your war," Baraka answered. "Remember that pain grants wisdom—and you have been granted much. Remember that our _krantt_ gives you strength beyond that which you possess yourself—and both of these sources are formidable. Remember that Urdnot Bakara calls you friend."

Shepard's mouth curved into a lopsided smile. "Stay safe."

"Fight well."

Shepard inclined her head, then strode off to the shuttle waiting for her.

-J-

Shepard slipped the crystal back into the soft leather bag, and suspended the bag from her belt. The weight of the gift staggered her, remembering the story belonging to it as she did. Bakara had used it to claw her way out of the cave that would be her tomb and back into the light and life just beyond. That was a powerful history, and she felt mildly uncomfortable taking it with her.

"Damn, when krogan party, they throw a _party_ ," Cortez observed as Shepard dropped into the copilot's seat. "So, how's it feel to be a krogan, Captain?"

Shepard considered for a few minutes, then shrugged. "Trippy, but that might just be being up all night. Ask me again in six to eight hours." She could use a little sleep, and with how tired she was she doubted anything but a direct impact with the Normandy's hull would be enough to wake her up.

If felt good to be tired enough to just go to sleep without thinking too much before doing so.

"I'll do that," the pilot promised as the shuttle shivered as it broke free of Tuchanka's atmosphere.

Shepard's hand crept down and closed around the crystal in its leather bag. The action was oddly comforting, as if some of Bakara's calm aura, her deliberation and patience, had seeped into it over the years.

Shepard suspected she would need both of those things in the near future: deliberation and patience.

Her omnitool lit up, revealing a new message. It was from Wrex and Shepard repressed a groan. If he couldn't say it on Tuchanka's surface, it was bound to be bad—or something that would 'get under her plates' so to speak. If it involved Alenko, she was going to have to resist telling Cortez to turn this ship around so she could strangle her 'brother.'

 _Shepard—didn't want to bother you with it before you left, but here's a list of krogan who want to sign on with you and join the_ Normandy _. I told them you'd think about it, but that you didn't want anyone who hadn't proved himself first—especially since you're so buddy-buddy with a turian and you don't put up with crap between crewmen. That'll pare down the list some more and ensure some enthusiastic help for those birdbrains when we get there. When you see Garrus…rub in the fact that we're bailing Palaven out. You're a krogan now—you should practice being one. Wrex._

Shepard snorted, Wrex's flat-toothed leer clearly visible in her mind. If they both survived this thing, he was going to have a lot of fun with 'you're a krogan—' She hoped they both lived to argue about what 'being krogan' actually _meant_.


	293. Satisfying

"Seriously?" Jack asked, walking into the tent she and her kids occupied in the camp. "Aren't you a little old for cartoons?"

"Cartoons hell!" Prangley spoke up, waving his mess kit full of stew around until Rodriguez grabbed his wrist to keep him from slopping it all over the place.

"I'll restart it for you," Octavia said, curing her omnitool, which was projecting onto the far wall of the tent. "Watch this, this is _amazing_."

Jack's mouth slowly dropped open, one side lifting in a grin as she watched a thresher maw go Wresting Federation on a Reaper. She sat down, wondering who the lucky bastard was that was able to capture this so well. "Wow…run it again."

Within minutes, the whole camp had been informed of the video's existence, and where to find it.

-J-

Across the galaxy, Tali gaped at the link Garrus, of all people, sent her. She watched in stunned silence as a thresher maw dragged a Reaper down into its nest, presumably to eat it. She glanced at the one line of text that accompanied the link. _So, what did you do today?_

Tali sighed, replaying the clip, watching the occasional flash of blue that suggested Garrus stood beside the cameraperson. What _had_ she done today? Tried to derail stupid ideas, mostly. Tried to get her people interested in the Reaper war. Unfortunately, Xen's 'interest' was probably 'interest in controlling the Reapers' because she certainly seemed to think controlling the geth was possible.

Tali didn't like the idea of anyone, not even her own people, in control of a Reaper armada.

-J-

Thane and Alenko sat in Alenko's apartment, watching the video on looped playback. "That is _so_ classically Shepard," Alenko said, shaking his head. "If shooting doesn't work, feed it to something."

Thane chuckled, watching the sheer tonnage of the thresher maw slam into the Reaper, knocking it face-first into the dirt before dragging it to the ground. The sheer strength, the raw power of nature unleashed in this fashion was breathtaking to watch. And EDI, he felt sure it was EDI behind the camera, did a marvelous job of capturing it. "It's a good sign: you don't need superweapons to kill a Reaper. There are forces in existence that, if harnessed, can do just as well."

"So…thresher maw cannons, huh?" Alenko grinned.

Thane shrugged, sipping his tea. "I wonder if the Reapers ever had that happen before. One of their number eaten by a worm."

-J-

"What? No!" Grunt almost howled as he watched the footage to which Shepard had sent him a link. "No!" It was unthinkable that Shepard had been fighting Reapers on foot—then throwing a thresher maw at it, when she realized her weapon's range wasn't effective enough—without him! "No!" he moaned, watching the thresher maw drag the Reaper into the ground and out of sight.

"What?" Dagg demanded, scowling mightily.

Grunt opened his mouth, then closed it again. It sounded a little weak to complain that Shepard was off killing Reapers like that, and that he'd made such a fuss over being disappointed at being left out of the fun. "Look at this," he commanded, restarting the video clip.

Dagg's jaw dropped. "Wow…that's…that's really cool, Grunt. Your human moth—er, friend is really, really…wow!"

Yes, Shepard was cool and wow and all that. But she was doing it _without him_! This was, he thought sadly, his _real_ punishment for demolishing that cop's car. She'd sent him home and put him in the corner.

-J-

"Admiral!"

Anderson jerked out of his doze, rubbing his eyes as the young recruit they'd picked up a few days ago slapped on the door to his tent, then entered, expression rapt.

"Sir! This just came through! You've got to see it! It's incredible!" the lad babbled. He held out his omnitool, which immediately began to play a segment of video.

Anderson wasn't sure he believed his eyes. He'd seen a lot of crazy things in his life, but he'd never imagined something quite like this. To see a thresher maw trying to eat a Reaper—it certainly succeeded in taking it down—was just… "Where did you get this?" he asked.

"Attached to a flash message from Adm. Hackett," the lad answered. "It was pinned to the bottom of the message saying the genophage was cured!"

Anderson felt sure he hadn't heard that right as he took the datapad the lad carried in his other hand. Sure enough, it was a brief message from Hackett, indicating to all Alliance personnel that the genophage had been cured and that the krogan were in the war to win it.

Anderson replayed the footage, watched numbly as the thresher maw attacked the Reaper, wrestled it to the ground, and dragged it out of sight. There was something viscerally satisfying about seeing the panic fire as the Reaper tried to struggle free. It was even more satisfying to see the thresher maw just not care how much the Reaper struggled.

It might only be one Reaper, but it was one Reaper the fewer—and one of the bigger ones, too.

Anderson watched the clip a third time, a kind of satisfaction, the sense of being bolstered, settling in his stomach as he did so. It wasn't a broad-application solution to the Reaper problem, but it certainly had entertainment value. He didn't doubt he was looking at something that—if civilization survived—would become one of the most-watched video clips ever placed on the Extranet.

-J-

The Illusive Man watched the video clip over the rim of a drink he wasn't really tasting. He had to give Shepard points for _panache_ ; he would never have considered pitting a thresher maw against a Reaper. Talk about 'special tactics.'

He glanced at his watch, calculated how much time before the Citadel coup would begin. It was best that Shepard was so well-occupied somewhere else. He didn't think she could stop it, but she could make things difficult. It was something at which she excelled.


	294. Responses

"Alright, what happened?" Commander Bailey asked of the cluster of C-Sec officers, packed around the breakroom vidscreen. Their unnatural stillness and rapt attention left him not quite wanting to know. News was generally bad news, and in this day and age there was no such thing as 'no news' to be good by comparison.

"Shepard got the krogan into this war by feeding a Reaper to a thresher maw!" one of the women cheered.

Bailey blinked, not quite certain he'd heard that right. "Who did what to which now?" he asked blankly.

Reluctantly, the officers parted so he could see the vidscreen. Whoever was handling tech restarted the video clip.

Bailey found himself staring as the scene unfurled, slack-jawed and incredulous.

"Careful sir, your coffee," one of the officers prompted, just before his tipping cup could send the hot liquid spilling to the floor.

-J-

Martin Burns would have liked to cheer as he watched the biggest thresher maw he'd ever seen (not that he'd seen many) slam into a Reaper in a full body tackle, wrestle it to the ground, and drag it away. He didn't know if it was appropriate, but he really didn't care: Shepard was getting flowers or a gift basket or something as soon as he could figure one out. Anyone who could get a cockamamie plan like that to work—forget working as well as it had—deserved one.

-J-

Brianna Bartlett, head of the Alliance Information Service, found herself whistling as she considered the avenues of propaganda that this Reaper vs. Thresher Maw vid opened. She'd seen a dozen versions, each set to a different song, and the original version with the muffled voices of those who had actually been present. She wasn't sure how useful it would be…but it was fun to play around with.

-J-

Aria T'Loak, ensconced in her corner of Purgatory, watched the clip nonplussed as soon as Narl brought it to her attention. Okay, it was definitely a gutsy, insane, and entertaining maneuver. She could spot Shepard a drink the next time the marine dropped in.

But she only watched the clip once: she had bigger plans and problems if she ever wanted to get off this squeaky-clean station.

-J-

The Mother sang as her Voice-to-the-Many showed her the moving picture. The machine had no chance for its life, brought low and slain by a sub-sapient creature. The Children, clever, sweet, beautiful children, raised their voices in chorus, filling the derelict ship which served as a nest. The Shepard who sang mercy sang in the snow and darkness now sang death in the sand and the sun; the elements bent to her will, the Machines would know it and taste their own mortality.

-J-

John Sheffler grinned as his immediate unit—including the new guy, Siu—clustered around the vidscreen, but the grin was brittle. He hated thresher maws, because he could still hear their screams in his head, and his scars always burned when he remembered Akuze.

Still, it wasn't every day you watched one of those monsters be destructive and take out their massive appetites on a real target. So to see the thresher maw chowing down (or attempting to) on a Reaper was deeply, viscerally satisfying.

It didn't endear the species to him, but it was good to know that thresher maws really did have a purpose in the galaxy. Maybe this wasn't the intended purpose, but he'd take what he could get: thresher maw acting for the galactic good, one less Reaper to worry about.

-J-

Councilor Quentius watched dubiously, caught between wondering at theinnate gift Spectres had for extreme solutions…and now often those extreme solutions panned out. More than interest in the proceedings—how often was anyone going to see a robot-bug-thing trashed by a giant worm? (Although the video's hit counter was suggestive.)—he felt a wave of relief. Shepard had done the impossible, brokered an alliance to get aid to a beleaguered Palaven. True, it didn't help her homeworld which was also burning, but it did help his.

He could only hope alliances made during the war would survive whatever came after…

-J-

Councilor Irissa watched the footage critically once through, then dismissed it as simple propaganda…though what Shepard was trying to do with it, she wasn't sure. It might be a rare event, but hardly worth the fuss everyone was making.

-J-

Councilor Esheel shook her head slowly. This genophage cure currently filled more of her mind than perhaps it should…to the point that the vidclip which had everyone so excited seemed to her only mildly interesting.

A cure to the genophage, a Reaper assaulted by a thresher maw, and a note from Shepard detailing Dalatrass Linron's apparent attempt to bribe her into dirty dealings _and_ suspicions that Linron was the leak at the STG base on Sur'Kesh, which Cerberus attacked.

There was only one thing to do, and it was with a heavy heart she did it: Spectre Lysana was the best candidate for this kind of job, and luckily she was on the station right now. They could talk after Esheel met with the executor this afternoon.

Speaking of meeting with the Executor, Esheel punched in the Normandy's frequency. It was probably better Shepard heard it sooner than later.

-J-

Donnel Udina felt his age, mostly in the fact that nerves had begun to affect him badly. It was the second morning he had vomited in his private bathroom. He had never dealt with nerves or anxiety this bad; it left him wondering whether his grasp exceeded his reach.

It was impossible not to know that there was a clip of battlefield footage from Tuchanka, released by Shepard or one of her cohorts. He cued the first version he came across—this one set to music—and watched, his stomach burning and writhing.

Something about the footage—and it had nothing to do with the music—left him feeling bleak, uncertain, and as if he'd just drifted out of sight of land into some wide ocean.


	295. Second Chances

"Well, you don't look like you're facing a firing squad this time," Allers declared by way of 'good afternoon.' She had waited until Shepard returned from Tuchanka—and had time to get mopped up—before requesting an interview. The galaxy was salivating to hear from someone who was on the ground after the release of the thresher maw vs. Reaper video.

"Let's just say I prefer your style of journalism, and don't want to rock the boat," Shepard answered as Allers lined her up against the backdrop.

"Okay, you ready?"

Shepard nodded, assuming a stance of parade rest.

"Alright…here we go." Allers cleared her throat. "Your team has just implemented a cure of the genophage. Millions of krogan are about to join the fight against the Reapers. What would you say to the people who feel that humanity is just starting another Rachni War and Krogan Rebellions?"

"I would say that it's not just humanity: this was a multispecies initiative. Then, I would say that every species has dark chapters in their histories, and that the other species are usually gracious enough to ignore the fact," Shepard answered calmly. "Most of our peoples would never have achieved spacetravel if we hadn't been able to put dark chapters aside. It's easy to remember the worst of the krogan because of what's recent, but it's also necessary to remember the best. They were heroes, once."

"And to those who would point out that their species didn't try to overrun the galaxy?"

"I would ask if they'd ever been to Tuchanka, if they'd ever seen firsthand what life is like there. Here's something most people won't know, because most people only know the krogan through the bad apples or through fictitious media. There's a growing question among the krogan: could life be _different_? And now, there's hope that it could be, will be. Moreover, I believe that krogan society is heading for a reunification—a desegregation of males and females—which means an influx of new voices and ideas." Shepard chuckled suddenly. "And their women are a _stubborn_ bunch."

Allers nodded. Her experience with krogan was nothing like Shepard's. After all, one of the Clans thought highly enough of Shepard to adopt her, and the other Clans hadn't tried to argue the point. "Are you aware that Clan Urdnot is already petitioning the Council for an embassy and rights to a colony world?"

"Considering that the krogan are about to come to the aid of a Council species' homeworld, I'm not surprised. It's more than some can say," Shepard answered mildly.

Ooh, but if there wasn't a burn in there for someone. Allers found herself grinning. It was an open secret on the Normandy that Shepard and Dalatrass Linron from the Salarian Union hadn't seen eye to eye.

"But apart from that, any arrangements between the krogan and the Council are between them," Shepard concluded.

"I was wondering, could you maybe elaborate on something you mentioned earlier? You suggested that insight into krogan society might change minds. How is that?"

Shepard considered very carefully, her gaze turning inward as if sifting and turning over her recent experiences. "Imagine a world where women and children live segregated for their own safety, and the men can only hope they recognize a physical trait when the children visit, hope to see something to connect them to the next generation. Imagine that the rearing of children is shared within a closed community so the despair of being infertile is more bearable. Imagine a world where, when sharing a child's upbringing isn't enough, a woman will wander into a wasteland to starve, or in the hopes that a thresher maw will put her out of her misery. For most of my career, I've interacted with male krogan, offworld. But meeting the other half of the population? It's been a real eye-opener. As one of these ladies said to me, wisdom comes from pain. The genophage has brought its own kind of wisdom."

Something in Allers' throat locked up as Shepard spoke. Like Shepard, most of her own interactions with krogan were with males of the species. She'd never really considered the position or situation of women on Tuchanka.

"I think the mothers—present and future—among the krogan will be the voice the krogan need to join society and function like any other species of galactic citizens. I don't think they will remain silent and let their living children suffer because of old mindsets and older grudges," Shepard concluded.

Allers hoped Shepard was right. She really, really did. "Okay, I think we're good."

Shepard nodded. "Was there anything else?"

"Nope. Although you might want to know, the thresher maw eating the Reaper went viral. It was really something the galaxy needed to see. What-what was it like down there?" Allers couldn't quite stop the stumble in her voice. She knew, from listening, that Shepard had been a hell of a lot closer than EDI, and rather than in a shuttle she'd been on the ground.

"It was definitely one of the crazier missions. Getting stepped on by a Reaper isn't exactly standard fare for an N," Shepard mused. "But it was something to see." Her expression broke into a wolfish grin. "And I got to see it up close."

There. One reason people like Shepard did what they did: so they could say that they _saw_ things, and saw them from an angle no one else would.

"If you haven't seen the footage, I'd suggest you do. EDI did a great job with the capture," Allers advised.

"I keep telling myself I'm going to carve out ten minutes to do just that." Shepard ran a hand through her hair. "See you later, Allers."

"See you, Captain."

Allers still felt as uncertain as the rest of the galaxy about the cure for the genophage…but she couldn't deny that Shepard's reasoning went beyond 'feeling sorry' for the krogan. The trick was to show the rest of the galaxy that pragmatism.


	296. Caught

"I don't like this."

Unseen, Oriana rolled her eyes at Nurse Kensington's timidity. She feared it would get the better of her, but Kensington refused to allow Oriana to snoop around on her own, much as Oriana would have preferred it.

Well, they were too far in to quit now, having left the residential wing to which Oriana had been confined for the past…weeks? She found herself losing track of time. Using Kensington's personnel card, they'd made it into the public area, which seemed suddenly staffed, already taking in a trickle of refugees.

They'd made it further, back to the place Kensington said even she wasn't supposed to go, the back area Henry Lawson frequented.

Something about this place struck Oriana as wrong, and given that Henry Lawson didn't really need her anymore, didn't have any hold on her, she found herself unwilling to simply sit still like a good girl.

It took weeks of wheedling and cajoling, of stoking Kensington's mistrust of the place and its benefactor to get here. But here they were, and it was too late to go back. Something about this place stank. She didn't know what that 'something' was, but Henry Lawson didn't strike her as the philanthropic type.

"Let's go back," Kensington said suddenly, grabbing Oriana's arm. "This is a bad idea—"

"We can't go back," Oriana answered grimly.

Her blood went cold as the door she reached to open suddenly opened of its own accord. Standing on the other side was none other than Henry Lawson, the last person she wanted to see while she was sneaking about his so-sketchy facility.

His mouth went thin as he glanced from Kensington to Oriana.

Behind him was a sight that made Oriana want to scream: men in black and white armor, golden logos stenciled on. "This is awkward," Henry Lawson said, sounding disapproving, rather than angry.

Oriana's lips thinned as Henry Lawson closed a hand firmly around her arm.

He forced a smile. "Well, seeing as you're so interested, perhaps you'd like the grand tour?"

Kensington, likewise guided by one arm by one of the Cerberus soldiers, was made to follow.

"This is no refugee camp," Oriana said accusingly.

"Of course it is," Henry Lawson answered shortly. "It also happens to be a research facility. Not that most people will ever know that."

"…what kind of research?"

"The vital kind," came the unhelpful answer.

Kensington's keycard, Oriana decided, would not have gotten them past the door behind which they found Henry Lawson. Every door seemed to be a heavy security thing, with matching security protocols. Someone was taking no chances of a refugee getting back here.

"You see, in order to win a war, you have to understand your enemy," Henry Lawson narrated as they moved deeper into the facility.

Oriana nearly screamed and recoiled as they entered a long room full of what looked like prison cells—prison cells containing various forms of Reaper. Kensington actually did. Suddenly, Oriana felt certain that Kensington had already been written off as 'a regrettable loss.' She wasn't sure about herself, but with Henry Lawson giving them this tour, he had to be sure they wouldn't get loose and talk about what they saw.

"Relax, my dear, they're quite contained. Not very pretty and, as I've discovered," he motioned to the most human-like of the bunch, "quite crude." In the next room were more husks in tanks. "These were made last night," he declared, slowing his walk.

"…made…?" Oriana almost mouthed the word, the implications hitting her like a charging krogan. "Are you saying you-you're _making_ your own Reapers?"

He looked down at her. "We now possess that capacity."

Oriana wanted to vomit, because this was not something anyone would volunteer for. She regarded the husks, visually indistinguishable from the Reaper-made variety in the other room. "That's why you want the refugees…people to practice on."

"You don't agree that it's better they contribute to the war effort than not?" he asked curtly.

Oriana's tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, leaving her silent. Henry Lawson was absolutely crazy. More than that, he was the worst criminal…maybe in the history of ever. The idea of using terrified refugees to practice making Reaper troops made her sick to her stomach.

She didn't want to think about what might happen to any children among the refugees. Tears stung her eyes.

"Making a Reaper is only the first step," Henry Lawson continued, rather as though pleased to have the opportunity to air his so-called genius. "The next step is much more difficult, and much more desirable: one must be able to control such creatures. And it's a small step going from a husk to a capital ship. Far less difficult than mastering the science necessary."

Controlling Reapers…and giving them to Cerberus? Oriana shuddered, inwardly and outwardly, at the thought. Humanity first her ass, she thought sourly. "Miranda will stop you," she said quietly.

Henry Lawson's expression flickered into something ugly. "I very much doubt it. I'm ready for her, and by the time she catches up with me, the point will be moot. Gentlemen, I'd like to speak to Nurse Kensington privately. Please take Oriana to one of the rooms in this wing. She won't be returning to her room, so her things will need to be collected."

A big, gloved hand closed over her other arm, preventing her from attempting to run away trying anything desperate. "Come along," the synthetically distorted voice commanded. When she didn't move, the hand began to tug until she had no choice but to shuffle her feet and follow.

As Oriana was marched away, she knew she would never see Kensington again. All she could do was hope that Henry Lawson would simply shoot her, rather than incorporate her into his grotesque experiments.

The last thing Oriana heard before the heavy security door snapped closed behind her was Nurse Kensington screaming in terror and pain, and squelching sounds like from a horror vid.


	297. Called In

Councilor Esheel's stomach squirmed as she established the connection with the Normandy.

She resented the necessity of making sure that all her facts were in a row, neat and organized, because that took _time_. And one couldn't accuse a Councilor of high treason, such as she intended to accuse Udina, without having a waterproof, bulletproof, vacuum-certified case. A case like that took _time_ to build. She wasn't sure how she'd survived the last few days, when she half expected to wake up to someone trying to kick in her door, intending to kill her.

She didn't exactly feel calm when Shepard appeared on the FTL terminal. " _You wanted to see me,_ _Councilor?_ " she asked, folding her hands behind her.

She was ready for complaints about the genophage cure. Esheel didn't need to be able to read humans well to know that. "Captain. I want you to understand that I owe my position to you, and it is not something I take lightly. Were it not for you, that weak-minded Councilor Valern would still be…leading the salarians down the sewage pipe." She meant to say 'alive and leading' but Shepard had always been touchy about the decision to abandon the Council—no, the whole Destiny Ascension and everyone aboard—to their own defenses to ensure Sovereign went down.

Shepard's expression didn't alter in the slightest, though something in her eyes shifted, a shrewd understanding of the galaxy, and she waited for it to drop the other shoe.

"But now I'm forced to champion a cure for the genophage. That's like saying we need a hurricane to put out a wildfire," Esheel concluded.

" _Dalatrass Linron has already made her displeasure_ _exceptionally_ _clear. And I don't mind telling you that I resent getting a nastygram chastening me for a team loss when she essentially told me to put a bullet in the same teammate if he wouldn't cooperate_ ," Shepard declared, her tone knife-edged, her bright eyes narrowing. " _I don't like it when politicos defame my friends who died in action, or women who get in my face when my friends join a war she's not willing to._ " And from the way Sheaprd's mouth pursed, she had a lot more she would _like_ to say on the subject.

A warning that Linron should avoid further contact with Shepard like some super-contagious plague, or Shepard was going to start firing back…and Linron wouldn't like it. It was common knowledge among the Council that Shepard had been adopted by Clan Urdnot, and that this adoption gave her both responsibilities and privileges. It also gave the krogan a member who understood the galaxy beyond Tuchanka, and who knew how to deal with the people in it.

"May I have a copy of that message?" Esheel asked, as if it was no big deal.

Shepard twitched her shoulders, then forwarded the message.

"I wouldn't worry yourself overmuch about Linron," Esheel declared, trying not to sound soothing. The fact was that Linron was not only conducting matters with a rather high hand, she was beginning to swing her weight around so erratically that the Salarian Union's leadership was beginning to fragment over _her_ rather than over something truly momentous, like a cure for the genophage.

The military had already made it as clear as they could that they were _going_ to help in this war, one way or another, and if the Dalatrassi could couldn't themselves together to lead, then the military was simply going to do what they were paid to do, heedless of the leadership's wishes.

Esheel didn't think it would come to a military coup, but silencing Linron—she had a meeting with the best Spectre for the job later today—would go a long way in settling the Salarian Union's discord.

"Now that we both know where we stand with regard to things and one another," Esheel continued. "We need to discuss Councilor Udina, and where _he_ stands."

Shepard's expression seemed to flash freeze. " _What's that snake done?_ " she asked softly, apparently aware that Esheel wouldn't be calling her about something petty, like jaywalking or strange graffiti.

"He's been moving vast sums of money, for one. The intriguing point is where it's going—there may still bebeetles on the Citadel, Captain," Esheel held up a hand, as Shepard opened her mouth. She didn't think any survived the various purges, but it was best to be careful. But she knew Shepard well enough that Shepard would set speed records if she understood why she ought to. Just because she was told to present herself wasn't a reason to do so.

Shepard shut her mouth with an audible click, taking the hint about bugs—possibly while remembering her own memo about them. She held up a finger, and stepped out of capture. She was back a moment later. " _I'm on my way, Councilor, as soon as I get off the line with you_." Then, after a pause. " _This is really going to upset me, isn't it?_ "

"Without doubt. Hopefully, we'll be able to prevent anything catastrophic."

" _You probably don't need me to say it, but take precautions, Councilor._ "

"Of course. I'll see you when you get here. I'll let my secretary know to admit you upon arrival." Esheel severed the link, leaning on her desk.

Quentius already carried a gun. Irissa was a biotic. There was no need to warn them to take additional precautions…and Esheel worried that Irissa might just tip their hand somehow, alert Cerberus to the fact that someone was onto them. It was less a fear Irissa might do something jumpy, and more a fear that the asari's preference for being _the_ leader (something she had to be reminded several times a day that she was not) would result in foolish action.

Shepard knew Cerberus best; at the very least, she was quite good at thwarting their plans. Hopefully, it would be just so this time.

Esheel hoped that whatever storm was brewing, it could wait a little longer before it broke.


	298. Discretion

Kolyat got to his feet as his father entered the cafeteria, but his guts tightened. There was something in his father's movements that left him feeling cold and an intense watchfulness in the dark eyes that he hadn't seen there before. There was tension, a sort of flowing quality as he walked that spoke of a readiness to react at the slightest provocation—more so than usual, which told Kolyat this was an active use of movement.

His father said nothing as he approached, put an arm around his son, and guided him casually towards the door. There was nothing on his father's face to disturb him…except for the darkness behind those watchful eyes. No sooner were they out of the cafeteria then his father tightened his grip.

"…Father?" Kolyat asked uneasily as his father guided them along a hall they had never traversed before.

"Momentarily."

Kolyat bit his tongue as his father wound them through the hospital. They were halfway down a service corridor when noise began from the direction of the cafeteria. Kolyat would have stopped, but the pressure on his shoulders was inexorable.

"You can do nothing to help," his father said calmly, omnitool flaring and unlocking a service door through which he slipped before waving Kolyat to follow.

Kolyat obeyed and his father pulled the door shut. The lad entertained the sudden idea that he was being made to disappear. "What's going on?" he demanded in a hoarse undertone.

His father exhaled slowly, coughing on the last seconds of breath. "It appears I'm still considered a threat. Look." He cued his omnitool.

Kolyat watched what had to be tapped security footage being streamed to his father's omnitool: men in heavy armor had entered the cafeteria. Several people lay dead, and one of them seemed to be asking about something.

"They're Cerberus."

"And they want you because you were with her—Shepard?" Kolyat asked, his cheek aching with remembered pain. She hadn't held back when she'd pistol-whipped him, though his father later indicated that if she _really_ wanted to hurt him, she'd have crushed the cheekbone outright or simply punched the bridge of his nose back into his upper sinus passage.

"Yes. Listen," his father took him by the shoulders. "I want you to go back to the apartment. There are two bags under my bed—both are for you. Take them and use the maps to get off the Presidium—they can't hold the whole Citadel and you'll be harder to find."

Kolyat felt his insides drop to his ankles as his father studied his face as if this might be the last time they saw one another. "I'm not a child, I can help," Kolyat protested.

"I failed your mother because I was careless. I won't make the same mistakes now, but I must do what I can to help. I can't do that if I'm worried about your safety."

"You're already having trouble breathing!" Kolyat snapped—though he kept his voice down when his father glared at him.

"That's my obstacle. You're not a child: that means knowing when to fight, when to run, and when to wait. Now is a time to hide. I love you." His father hugged him tightly, as if it might be the last time.

It might well be, Kolyat through, hugging his father back. "I'll go back to the apartment. I won't get caught. I promise."

"Thank you." His father released him. "I love you."

Kolyat swallowed hard. They were three words he hadn't used yet, but his father didn't seem to expect them.

Rather, his father produced a small pistol from a concealed holster, then unfastened the holster, fitting the latter onto his son before shoving the pistol into place. "Go on. Go quickly."

"But you'll need—"

His father's smile was a dark, grim thing. It told Kolyat everything: his father carried a weapon for the sake of convenience. If he needed to be armed, he would find a way to do it in in short order and had no doubt about his ability to do so.

He did the only thing he could: he obeyed. When he glanced over his shoulder at the first corner he came to he found his father had vanished like smoke.

The Presidium was degenerating into chaos—apparently the introduction of troops wasn't as complete as one might think from their appearance at the hospital. Kolyat bit his lip as he keyed himself into their apartment, knowing that it would be unwise to stay very long.

It was best to assume someone, somehow, would find the address and come to have a look.

The bags were under his father's bed—simple supplies for a few days, little things that might be useful surviving in an unregulated urban environment. The map his father mentioned would take him to the nearest entrance of the Keeper tunnels and through them into one of three wards—he could have his pick.

If he thought about it, it didn't surprise him that the apartment was so close to an entrance to the tunnels. It was little more than a short sprint down one alley, along one street and into another alleyway.

Kolyat grabbed the other bag and swung both onto his shoulders, the pistol heavy on his hip. He'd promised to run and he'd promised not to get caught…

…but he couldn't hide. The idea of not helping or trying to help chafed and burned.

If his father was willing to raise a hand against this assault when he could barely breathe after a few minutes on the treadmill then what business did Kolyathave cowering like a child? He might not be much use, comparatively untrained as he was, but there had to be something he could do.

Kolyat sighed. He would have to start with not getting caught.

And that meant making it into the Keeper tunnels before anyone got hold of him. Drell weren't exactly a credit a dozen on the Citadel.


	299. Expiate

Lantar Sidonis had not yet found the wherewithal to take his own life—though the thought was with him daily. Rather, he puttered around C-Sec as a volunteer. They couldn't legally do anything to him since his crimes took place on Omega, and there wasn't exactly an extradition process, particularly with Omega in the hands of Cerberus.

So he volunteered here, one of the human officers having latched onto him, giving him purpose.

His gizzard convulsed uncomfortably as a C-Sec officer came barreling into the room. "We're under attack!" he shouted a second before his chest exploded outward in a bloody cloud.

Eddie Lang, his C-Sec handler, yelped and dragged the both of them down behind the desk, which their combined efforts flipped. The desktop wouldn't stop a bullet, but it would slow one down. "You've got to get out of here!" Eddie shouted in his audial well before popping up to return fire with his sidearm.

He dropped back down twice as fast.

Sidonis peered over the desk then ducked his head again. Cerberus. He only recognized Cerberus from having seen them on the news. From the looks of things they meant business. "How'd they get on the station?" Sidonis asked.

"I'll be sure to ask the first chance I get," Eddie grated out, his tone indicating that C-sec obviously needed to clean house because it shouldn't be possible for Cerberus to be massing in any part of C-Sec's headquarters. "Go! Get out of here!" He gave Sidonis a push.

Unarmed and without any kind of plan, Sidonis obeyed, winding his way to the back of the large room. It wasn't unlike being on Omega once things jumped off. The thought nearly made him vomit, ghosts pushing against the corners of his eyes.

As soon as he was behind an angle of the wall he peered back. Cerberus had the upper hand and were making use of it. Sidonis gritted his teeth, his head aching with the question of what to do. He didn't have a gun. The best weapon he had were his talons and those weren't much use against a gun.

What to do, what to do—

"What's happening?" A sharp female voice demanded.

He turned around to see a human hurrying towards him, her skirt hiked up almost to her knees so it wouldn't be in her way. A camera-bot followed at her shoulder and she held her microphone the way a person might hold a short club. "Oh…you're not C-Sec."

"Neither are you," he answered. "Come on—we don't want to be here." He grabbed her arm as gunfire erupted again—and this time it was the sound of rifles with far too few punctuations of the small arms the C-Sec personnel would have.

"Where are you taking me?" she demanded, struggling.

"Somewhere safer than here! That's Cerberus, okay—"

The woman's eyes widened. For a moment she mouthed at him, then her expression drew into tight lines of disgust. "I need to get to a terminal," she said, her voice low.

"Why?"

"Because C-Sec Headquarters is the heart of the Presidium's security. They lock this place down and no one knows anything about what's going on. If I can get to a terminal, I can put out a message and loop it over several channels…in case anyone tries to listen in."

Sidonis balked, but nodded. "Okay. This way." If any of the detectives' offices were still open…

They came across bodies, but seemed to be behind whatever teams Cerberus had released. He could hear fighting but never seemed to cross it. He crossed the results often enough though, which at least left him with a way to shoot back.

"This is crazy," the woman hissed. She, too, had picked up a pistol but held it like someone highly unused to such an implement.

…please, Spirits, don't let her shoot him with that…

"Here!" he darted to one side of the hallway, into an abandoned office. "If they've already been through, they may not come back. It's safer than anywhere else right now." He didn't know if this was true, but the woman seemed to take courage from it.

"Okay…just give me a minute…"

Sidonis moved into the hall, biting his lip. "Listen, you need to keep your head down and stay safe. Just stay in here, I'm going to lock you in."

She looked up. "Are you insane?"

"You can barely hold that—" Muffled, garbled voices sounded. "Get under the desk and cross your fingers." He shut the door then waved his omnitool at the locking mechanism. The old algorithm from Omega still worked and the lock immediately turned red, then fizzled, then exploded. They'd have to dismantle the door if they wanted to get in.

It was only one life, he thought as he took a knee behind the nearest cover—a kind of ornamental planter thing—but it was the best he could do. It wouldn't make up for the others…but it was the best he could do.

The first Cerberus trooper of a team, probably making sure no one doubled back, took a slug to the face—surprising, considering how much his hands were shaking.

 _You're too tense. That's why they tell you to let a half breath out before you squeeze—I said_ squeeze _—the trigger. Relaxes the muscles that tense up when you're anticipating the kick._

The second trooper took two slugs to the chest.

The third didn't take any and was promptly joined by a fourth.

Sidonis bunkered down as the reporter's voice began to sound over the all-call—and hopefully channels that people who _could_ do something would be able to tap into.

He leaned out from cover and unloaded a few more rounds, but knew all he could do was send harassment fire at them. He couldn't retreat. He couldn't advance.

He chuckled wryly to himself.

Suicide by Cerberus, then.

He'd sent two ahead of him…he'd have to see how many he could drag along.


	300. Into the Fire

"Kaidan!"

Alenko turned on his heel to see Thane running up to him. The man was obviously having trouble breathing. "They're at the hospital too?" he demanded.

"Yes."

"I'm heading for the Citadel tower—the Council's gotta be evacuated."

"Be careful," Thane panted, an intense aura hanging about him. "You're Shepard's companion. If they can use you to get to her, they will."

"I'll be careful," Alenko answered, his stomach twisting. "What about you?"

"I'm heading for C-Sec. If they have that, they have the station. I can get in in ways others can't."

If he could make it, but Alenko said nothing on that subject. "Your son?"

"Safe—or he will be soon…I hope."

He didn't say anything on that subject, either. "Keep your head down. They've probably got a shoot on sight order for you."

"I am not concerned. I merely wished to be sure of you." With that, the drell turned and loped off, his breath rattling unpleasantly.

It wasn't the first time that Alenko had the impression that Thane had been keeping an eye on him on Shepard's behalf. He'd never confronted the drell about it, feeling certain that Thane would lie or evade the issue completely. But to meet him here, _en route_ from his apartment to the Citadel Tower's evacuation outlet…that was in the opposite direction of C-Sec headquarters. By the time Thane got there, Cerberus would be firmly entrenched.

He'd gone out of his way to ascertain, in person, that Alenko was alright. He had the feeling that if Thane was in any better physical condition he would have found an excuse to follow along, to stay close.

It would not be the first time that Alenko suspected Thane harbored feelings for Shepard, and not those of a comrade.

Alenko shook himself. He couldn't get sidetracked: all Spectres were supposed to be converging on the Council. The first ones there would remove them to a place of safety at which point the rest would converge as able. He tapped into the emergency channel they'd be on, listened to the rapid-fire exchange of information.

"This is Alenko—I'm almost there," he announced as Spectre after Spectre complained of having met with specific resistance. Someone had known who they were; someone had known where many of them would be.

" _Well good for you setting a speed record,_ " a turian voice rumbled, tinged with relief rather than animosity.

" _Don't be like that,_ " an asari said. " _Listen, I'm out of range right now, I won't make it on foot in time to be useful. I'm gonna grab a car and then catch up with you—getting them out on foot's not going to work. I_ know _them._ "

" _You might arm Quentius if it's feasible_ ," a salarian put in. " _Any turian coming from a respectable upbringing knows how to use a handgun without doing damage to his own side._ "

" _Don't_ _let Irissa have one. I don't think she remembers how to use her own barrier_ ," another asari sniffed. " _She'd probably shoot you in the ass while you're not looking._ " 

That was his opinion, too.

" _Alenko, it's Polonius with the Council—Esheel's not here._ "

"Any idea where she is?" Alenko asked. "I can see the Tower—looks like Cerberus is heading up to the Council Chambers."

" _Then they don't know how the Council gets out. Good for us,_ " Polonius responded. " _You know where the extraction point is?_ "

"Yeah, I'm on my way."

" _Move fast—if they've got C-Sec they can find references to—shit!_ "

Gunfire exploded over the radio, eliciting several demands as to whether Polonius—and by extension the Council—was alright.

Alenko sprinted, his barrier flaring. It was not exactly covert, but from the sounds of things Polonius needed all the help he could get.

He arrived at the small underground garage to find Polonius and the three Councilors bunkered behind the shot-up remains of a ground car, a turret drilling the vehicle. Even bulletproofing had limits and the constant fire of a turret would definitely test those limits.

He let his biotics flare and sent a pulse into the turret that knocked it off its tripod. Like most of its kind, the turret had a gyroscope inside to ensure that if it fell over it wouldn't shoot up its own side.

"The car's a loss!" Polonius shouted. "We're gonna have to do this on foot!"

Alenko ignored the council's protest and the other Spectres on the closed channel. Instead, he took a breath, lifted the groundcar and smashed it firmly into the doorway, knocking back those Cerberus goons who were in the way and preventing more from following. It wasn't a perfect seal, but it definitely caused Cerberus consternation.

When he reached Polonius, he found the turian bleeding and looking homicidal.

"It's not bad," Polonius snapped as he got to his feet. "But we need a new plan."

" _Keeper tunnels,_ " an asari voice announced. " _There's an outlet near the Avina terminal in front of the chambers. Some of those tunnels are too narrow for those Cerberus hulks to follow you through. You can take them to the secondary site and get off from there._ "

" _I can make the secondary site—I borrowed a car and can be there in… fifteen or twenty minutes. Depends on traffic,_ " an asari from earlier announced.

"Let's go, then," Polonius said. "I'll take point, I know which outlet Vasir's talking about. _You_ keep them _safe_." With that, the turian winced and straightened.

"Not while you're bleeding like that," Alenko said flatly, producing a tube of medigel, finding the entry wound and sealing it before putting an omnigel plug over the carapace.

"Much obliged. Tension cracks in a plate are a real bitch."

Which Alenko took to mean that the turian had absolutely no concept of the old saying 'an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.' Alenko had to shake his head at this sheer stubbornness, even if he could see how someone might see it as a necessity.


	301. Rats

Councilor Esheel shivered as she knelt behind the Executor's desk, keenly aware of his corpse, shot so many times his head and chest were little more than spongy masses. Blood dripped sluggishly to pool near her, and she pulled the hem of her robes away from the spreading puddle.

She knew her stealth generator was top of the line…but it felt like very flimsy protection. She kept waiting for this to be a bad dream—the kind when one walks invisible only to discover one isn't in the worst possible way, at the worst possible moment.

With effort, she kept her breath as quiet as she could, shallow, trying not to let it stutter as adrenaline caused her to shake.

The Executor's advice was good: stay in stealth, bunker down here, and wait for rescue. The Spectres on station would scramble, the Council's safety their highest priority.

But the Council meant Udina was in place…and while she had no idea if he was any better with a gun than she was, he only had to get lucky twice.

…but his pet Spectre would probably be there. Udina didn't usually let the man wander far and now Esheel knew why. But the question was, was the Spectre Udina's creature, or simply his dupe? Because Esheel knew that Major Kaidan Michael Alenko was one of Shepard's former cohorts, her left-hand man, even. Surely that would matter. Udina had sold the man into the Spectre program by pointing out that, as a protégé of Shepard's, he surely picked up some of the techniques that made her so effective. And he was much more socially adroit, having spent less time among the krogan and various other backwater places in the galaxy.

Esheel realized she'd begun panting in her distress, but fortunately the door remained closed. All she had to do was wait…even if Udina killed the others—aided or not by his pet Spectre—she was out of reach and, for the moment, out of sight. She could still bear witness…which made her wonder whether Udina knew.

She squeezed her eyes shut as gunfire moved closer again, then receded. How long until Shepard arrived? Part of her wanted to ask what Shepard—even backed by her cohorts—could do in the face of a full-on invasion of the Citadel…but part of her felt that if anyone could do anything, could tip the tide out of Cerberus' favor, it would be Shepard backed by said cohorts. If nothing else, they would have to concentrate their forces on killing her, because if they didn't, she and her team would cut through them with extreme prejudice.

She had to know, she had to be told, that humanity's Councilor was a traitor, a turncoat. But Esheel was afraid: even with her omnitool switched to privacy mode, who could say whether there wasn't still a way to track her? If Quentius was alive, doubtless he'd messaged her about a million times by now.

Esheel glanced at her hands, taking comfort in the fact that she couldn't see them. If only she knew—

A sound overhead, the lightest knock of something against metal nearly made her scream. Silence followed, during which she clamped her hand over her mouth. A moment later, one of the vents in the ceiling gradually shifted, just enough to let someone peer out into the room with an unobstructed view.

Oh, by the Great Circle, they had tunnel rats!

Esheel's heart pounded so loud she felt sure the operator in the ducts must hear it. What if they had thermal imaging devices? A stealth field didn't stop a person from showing up on that kind of scan!

"Damn," a low voice, barely a whisper, slightly gurgling, declared. The vent opened a little wider, though Esheel couldn't see much except a set of blue-green fingers—definitely not human fingers, definitely not Cerberus goon fingers—that appeared to hold the vent more securely so it wouldn't fall. A sigh, weary and frustrated, that seemed to ask what the one issuing it should do now. Apparently, the individual came to their own conclusion. The vent was pulled back into place, the fingers disappeared.

Then there was silence again. The vent didn't move, nor did she hear any indication that the individual in the vents was still there. There was no indication they had moved on either, which meant someone small, small enough to squiggle snakelike through the ducting without an excess of noise.

Esheel hadn't realized her eyes had teared up, the hysterical tears of complete terror…though confusion, even curiosity, warred with that terror now, reducing it to a more manageable level. What had that been about? She ventured to get up out of her crouched position, moving to look up at the vent—not that there was anything to see. Part of her wanted to call out, to bring back this strange anomaly…but common sense dictated that it was probably better to remain invisible, continue pretending she wasn't here.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks, swallowing thickly.

The door burst open, and she nearly screamed as three troopers, clearly Cerberus, stomped in.

Hastily, Esheel moved away from the Executor's desk and corpse, looping behind the three hulks…one of whom had a thermal scanner in his hand.

"The Salarian Councilor was supposed to be here," one of them announced.

"She's not here now," the one with the thermal scan declared, as Esheel, begging silently to anyone or anything that might hear her, hurried to stay close behind him. "Nothing on the scan."

She heaved a silent mental sigh when the device was turned off and pointed at the floor.

Silently, ghostlike, she followed them into the next room—a meeting room, with a long table lined with chairs. They scanned the room carefully with the thermal reader.

Maybe they wouldn't feel the need to check the room again? If so, it might be a safer place.

"Nothing. Keep looking," the one with the scanner declared, turning to go.


	302. Riot

Matriarch Aethyta grinned as she watched—yet again—the Reaper vs. Thresher Maw clip. It was all over the Extranet and even on the news. People couldn't seem to get over the idea that one of the legendary appetites in the galaxy had finally been put to good use. It helped that the video quality was exquisite, not grainy and weird as such things tended to be.

She had just poured another drink—and checked the peanut bowl, wondering if anyone really liked those things, or if they just liked the obscene amount of salt on them—when she heard it: somewhere up and behind her on the right, screams and shouts, panic.

Then gunfire.

Aethyta pursed her lips, adrenaline dumping into her blood. She ducked behind the bar, grabbed her shotgun and the spare block of ammunition. Her employer hadn't liked the idea of a shotgun behind the bar, but a note from the right people squared that away.

This was war. She refused to wander around unarmed, just because the Citadel was supposed to be safe. Everyone who had ever ventured off the Presidium knew that the Wards suffered the exact same problems as any other metropolitan area.

When Aethyta peered over the bar, she spotted black and white armor moving around on the upper levels, breaking off. Her stomach clenched. A Cerberus takeover of the Citadel? That was…gutsy…but the amount of people it would take to secure the station…

She nipped the thought. No, this couldn't possibly be a station takeover. They would need a force that couldn't possibly have gone unnoticed. But if they could lock down strategic points? That might work. Oh, and kill the Council. That was probably on the agenda, too.

Still, for them to make such a blatant play in a place like this…had taking (and holding) Omega made them this bold?

Aethyta ducked again, opening her omnitool. Bartenders tended to communicate, and while Aria wasn't her problem, Aethyta paid attention to where Liara did her drinking.

 _Cerberus on Citadel. Tell your boss to bunker down._

The same message went out to Councilor Irissa, on the emergencies-only channel, to her contact in C-Sec, to anyone Aethyta could quickly put on the recipient list.

When she heard the Cerberus troopers clearly, she hit send and jumped to her feet. The trooper approaching the bar paused long enough for her to level her shotgun and discharge the weapon.

She hit the ground as the bar was suddenly peppered with ammunition. Her barrier glowed, thin but fully capable of stopping a bullet or two. When the gunfire stopped, she wriggled forward, got her feet under her—swearing at her skirt, which hampered her freedom of movement—then sprinted for the table Liara usually occupied.

 _It's a nice table. Pleasant view, and sturdy._

She flipped the article, hand finding the shield module as if by instinct. A barrier was good, but you could never go wrong with a little additional shielding. Resource management was something the longest-lived asari had all mastered. Grinning at her girl's forethought and practicality, Aethyta peered around the upended table.

Three troopers, all of them more interested in pacifying her resistance than bullying the cowed patrons. Well, that was only common sense. Unfortunately for them, and as she told Shepard, she'd had hundreds of years to learn to fight dirty.

A pull threw one of the troopers over the railing. A throw sent the second crunching into the nearest wall. A warp, followed by several volleys of shot, finished the third. "What are you waiting for? Clear out!" Aethyra snarled at the patrons. "Bar's closed!"

But the sound of resistance would draw more forces. Aethyta was at the railing overlooking a long drop when her omnitool jingled. "What?" she demanded shortly.

" _Where are you_?" Aria's voice asked coolly.

"Making a dramatic exit, what do you want?"

" _Don't get stuck with your ass hanging out. The bouncer's expecting you._ " With that, Aria hung up.

Aethyta arched her eyebrows. Well, that kind of invitation was unexpec—

"You. Turn around, now."

Aethyta rolled her eyes, turning around only so she could count the number of assailants she had to deal with.

Three more. She levered herself to sit on the railing, smirking at the troopers. She'd heard Liara say they weren't too bright. With a flick of her wrist, a singularity formed right above their heads. They struggled and flailed as gravity ceased to function properly, pulling them off the ground and towards the singularity, leaving them hanging helpless in the air.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a shuttle—a _shuttle_?!—splashed on its side with Cerberus colors. How had they got that kind of hardware onto the Citadel without anyone knowing or noticing?

She smelled a rat somewhere.

Hm. Maybe she did need to take Aria up on her invitation, at least long enough to find out what the concerted response was. At the very least they agreed that Apollo's was not a particularly defensible location.

Aethyta glanced down, then back to the flailing Cerberus troopers. Taking a moment to shoot the idiots a one-fingered salute—one of her favorite life lessons was 'never miss getting digs in when you can'—she rolled backwards, simply falling over the railing. Her own biotic field slowed her fall so she touched down lightly on the next level and darted for the Keeper tunnels.

Once she made it into those, she could move about—assuming Cerberus didn't have skinny people crawling around in them. Goodness knew those big hulks would never fit.

She doubted elevators would work at a time like this, and even if they had, she wouldn't have trusted them. Too easy to let folks get into a confined space like that, let them get going, then stop the elevator between floors or something equally inconvenient.

She and Liara agreed that the troopers were stupid, but that didn't mean they slept through tactics during whatever drone academy they attended.


	303. Tunnels

Councilor Quentius wanted to scream, then bunker down and shoot every incoming hostile he could possibly get in his pistol's sights. The turian in him demanded the making of a stand, required that this incursion be pushed back—by his own hands, since the enemy seemed to be everywhere and looking for him.

Well, they wanted all the Council, surely, but since they were almost all in the same place…

Councilor Esheel was missing, and not answering her omnitool. He hoped it was because she was somehow hidden and didn't want to give herself away, that she wasn't actually dead somewhere.

He glanced over at Irissa, looking as haughty as ever, her mouth set in a thin line, eyes narrowed. Since she couldn't see him, he rolled his eyes. This was no time for 'heads will roll' dramatics. At least she wasn't ranting.

Now Udina, he looked like Quentius felt, pale and shaking, giving every impression of a man trying not to vomit.

Quentius glanced at Alenko's formidable bulk at the head of the column, occasionally murmuring to the other Spectres on the emergency band. Every time he did so, Irissa gave the impression of grimacing, but the rule was that it was the _Spectre_ emergency channel. Councilors didn't belong on it.

That was probably for the best, because scared politicians—he thought more of Udina and Irissa than Esheel and himself—did and ordered stupid things, countermanding the people who really did know better. Irissa might come across as reasonable, but he knew her type: once she was compromised, she became a train wreck, something out of control that was dangerous to her own side, someone who ended up helping the opposition more than the defense. She wasn't a terrible peacetime leader, he thought a little sadly, but she wasn't cut out for war.

Polonius had gotten them to the Keeper tunnels, but his wounds were slowing him down too much—or so he'd argued briefly with Alenko. Alenko hadn't argued too hard, seeing the necessity: to keep moving was the safest thing to be done, to reach the secondary extraction point, to which more Spectres would be heading, was the wisest thing. Second chances were rare, and Cerberus would be intent on making sure they were nonexistent.

He didn't think Polonius was mortally wounded. He hoped he wasn't; Polonius was a good Spectre.

The Keepers were creepy, Quentius thought as they passed one of the bug-like custodians of the Citadel. No matter what happened, they just went on working as if nothing was wrong. Their unperturbed presence in the face of the chaos outside left Quentius with a sense of deep unease.

Or maybe it was just that the Keeper tunnels, dimly lit and rarely used, created their own sinister ambience. Or maybe it was not knowing how bad things really were out there. The Spectres were right: so far, none of Cerberus' goons had been able to fit into the tunnels.

Hopefully, they wouldn't be waiting at the extraction point, either.

-J-

Outwardly, Irissa was fuming. Inwardly, her outrage didn't warrant such a proactive adjective. Cerberus, here? On the _Citadel_? It was preposterous! It should be impossible! And yet, despite that, it did seem to be happening.

The Citadel was the safest place in the galaxy, apart from Thessia. And yet here were those hulking brutes, tracking up the place and leaving bullet holes everywhere! She shuddered inwardly.

What did they want? What did they hope to gain through all this? Did they think killing the Council would benefit them? Surely they had to know that the galaxy wouldn't just accept Cerberus' rule if the Council died. It didn't work that way.

And how had they managed to get the kind of force onto the Citadel needed to cause all the trouble currently happening? C-Sec should have noticed any strange influxes of...of…of _anything_ strange! It was their _job_.

Either C-Sec really did need more funding, or they really needed new leadership. Irissa wasn't sure which it was, but she wasn't likely to come to any conclusions while wandering around the in the Keeper tunnels.

The Citadel was supposed to be safe.

That had to mean an insider. Someone in C-Sec, who fudged numbers and helped Cerberus get their forces onto the station and into position. There was no other logical explanation. Unfortunately, C-Sec was a large organization. How to find the rats? How to be sure they found _all_ of the rats? Because, of course, this was the Citadel. Cerberus couldn't possibly take it and hold it. Not for any meaningful span of time, anyway…

Irissa's stomach churned with acid. She refused to go down in history as the Councilor who _lost_ the Citadel. The rest of the Matriarchs mustn't be given a reason to recall her because of someone else's mistakes and double-dealings. She didn't trust people to remember how well and wisely she ruled, guiding the galaxy along gentle, even paths. Upset made people unreasonable—

Irissa stopped so suddenly that Quentius, apparently deep in his own thoughts, bumped into her. Udina, walking ahead of her, just behind Spectre Alenko, had suddenly lurched over to one of the walls and vomited, violent spasms wracking his body. She scrunched up her face at the wetly splattering sounds, which made her own stomach churn in nauseous sympathy. She gritted her teeth together, suppressing the urge to be sick herself. Suddenly, the tunnel was too small, the air too still, and what was more, now full of the odor of Udina's exhalations.

Fingernails bit into Irissa's palms as she tried to steel herself. She would not vomit. She would not be killed here. She would not lose her positon to Cerberus' petty machinations. She _would_ find the party responsible for this chaos and have them _dealt with_!

Spectres, C-Sec, what were they _for_ if not to prevent garbage like this from happening? Maybe _both_ entities needed budgetary reform. This invasion was outrageous. Look how many Spectres were on hand!

One.


	304. Sit Tight

Aria didn't like the sense of being trapped in a box, but so far the only people who had entered Purgatory through the two sets of Keeper tunnels close to it were people she didn't mind having. Aethyta arrived about twenty minutes after being invited, looking as grimly amused as she ever did.

It counted for something that, although Aethyta inspected the defenses and the personnel as if she was some kind of visiting general, she didn't try to reorganize anything. It was obvious she didn't like being in a box on a station with a Cerberus infestation, either.

"Aria," Narl suddenly piped up. "Just got this: the _Normandy_ arrived about a minute ago."

"Well, someone's in for a shitshow," Aria observed dryly as Aethyta, possibly in response to hearing Narl's exclamation, drifted over. "Can you get them on the radio?"

Narl frowned, poking at his omnitool. "Yes."

" _This is the Normandy,_ " an almost toneless female voice announced.

"This is Aria. Put Shepard on."

Aethyta grimaced at this, but Aria ignored it.

" _Shepard is on the other line. May I assist you?_ "

Aethyta leaned over. "EDI, isn't it? Tell Liara Aethyta wants a word—that shield under the table came in handy."

The next words indicated the call had been shifted without delay. " _Are you okay?_ " Liara demanded.

"Give me a little credit," Aethyta chuckled. "And give yourself some too, by the way."

" _What's happening? All we've got right now is something about Cerberus taking over the station!_ "

"They're trying," Aria put in. "But I doubt they have the manpower to secure the whole station—just enough vital portions."

" _I'll pass it on—one of our team is on the ground, Shepard's taking a report from him. Meanwhile, we'll be arriving on the Presidium shortly._ "

The channel must be well-encrypted for her to feel so comfortable sharing the game plan. "You'll want to head directly for C-Sec," Aethyta declared. "It's the heart of the station, and if they have that, any liberating effort gets that much harder."

" _Are you at Purgatory?_ "

"No," Aria answered caustically, "We're at Apollo's."

" _I'm glad your winning sense of humor remains intact,_ " Liara answered frostily.

Suddenly, the lookout by one of the Keeper tunnels screamed.

Aria and Aethyta both whipped around to see several small, light, lithe somethings darting out. Several were dead in the moments before gunfire broke out. Even then, it took another moment and several more corpses, before biotics and bullets managed to subdue the incursion.

" _Aethyta? Dad!_ " Liara demanded.

"We're fine," Aethyta answered flatly. "Just had a couple visitors. Hang on."

Aria hadn't waited to deal with a worried kid. "So much for Cerberus hulks not fitting through the Keeper tunnels," she declared icily. "Malla, Krista, block off those tunnels. You get a visual on who wants in before admitting them."

The two asari immediately took up stations and raised barriers.

The flunkies were small, feminine in build, dressed in fitted suits of what looked like ballistic mesh, and identity-blocking helmets.

Aethyta arrived with Narl in tow, knelt to peel off the helmet and flop the body over, fingers tracing on the back of the neck. "Biotic—but looks like she was that way to start with."

" _Well, if I wasn't glad we saved those kids, I am now_." The voice now belonged to Shepard. " _Are you bunkered down well? Can you hold out?_ "

"I have done this before, Shepard, so I know what not to do this time," Aria declared icily, unsettled by the skin on the dead Cerberus whatever. The paleness, the dark veins, the unseeing blue eyes, all of it suggested some dead thing animated by a malevolent force.

Aethyta held out her omnitool, scanning the corpse, then stepped over to the other one.

" _Nice to hear from you too, Aria. If you're safe, just sit tight._ "

" _That's disgusting,_ " Liara's voice declared in the background, soft but audible.

" _That's one word for it_ ," Shepard agreed, tone redolent with disgust. " _We're scrambling a response._ "

"Then get to it," Aria said, picking up a sword from near one of the corpses. It was light, felt strange in her hand. It also suggested further augmentation to these…things…so they could use the weapon to some effect in this era of firearms and heat sinks.

" _Stay safe._ " The line immediately disconnected.

"Swords? Seriously?" Aethyta asked with a sigh that could have meant anything from annoyance to total disbelief.

"Looks like." And, as Aria surveyed the corpses these two made before being taken down, it looked like they really could use the antiquated weapons. Fortunately, Malla and Krista were both strong even by asari standards. They could hold those barriers against anything but barrage-level damage for hours.

Well, waste not was an attitude Aria had cultivated during her lifetime. This could very well be considered a dress rehearsal for Shepard. There didn't seem a better time to Aria to retake Omega then while Cerberus was reeling from having had the Citadel slapped out of their nasty little mitts.

"Narl. Get the Operation started," she commanded. It would take time to assemble the necessary equipment, to prepare. They might as well start here and now, as best they could, and hope it didn't take days or weeks to purge this station of the infestation.

Narl didn't question her, merely got to work.

Aria strode back to her couch and flopped down on it, the gears in her mind turning. Shepard was good at doing the impossible. Give her enough time, and she'd probably have C-Sec and any remaining Spectres rallied. The hard part—as far as Aria could tell—was just getting her foot in the door. Once she had it though, Cerberus would have to know it was only a matter of time before their little coup failed.

She'd have to remember this in future: customs was harassing her, a business-owner on the Citadel, about twiddly paperwork while Cerberus was filtering men and materiel onto the station wholesale?

Clearly, someone wasn't doing their job.


	305. Composure

Kelly Chambers didn't realize something was wrong until the gunfire started. The refugee docks were a loud place; voices pitched with distress were nothing unusual.

She froze where she was as the hubbub broke out, underscored by harsh slightly mechanized voices. Within moments, several heavily armed Cerberus troopers stalked past the alcove in which she stood, one of them breaking off.

"All of you. Out. Cooperate and you won't be harmed."

Yet, Kelly thought as she joined the flow of civilians out of the alcove. Won't be harmed _yet_. A tiny part of her half expected the troopers to start executing people they didn't need: turians lacking Garrus' distinctive scarring; batarians, because Shepard had never worked with them before; salarians, because Mordin was dead and Kelly didn't think the Illusive Man wouldn't know that. His intelligence network was superb.

The greater whole felt certain their orders were a _bit_ more specific…for now. Their targets were unarmed civilians, refugees in a contained space. There was no need for rough stuff just yet.

She flinched at the sounds of gunfire. She knew what that was: executing those too wounded to comply, just in case anyone was faking in hopes of time to think of something desperate and meddlesome.

Her heart thudded in her chest, making her glad she wasn't the only one shaking. The last time she'd been this helpless had been when the Collectors boarded the Normandy. At least then she'd been able to shoot back. Now, she was entirely dependent on…

She blanked the thought out, focused on adjusting her body language. More than one of the refugees seemed to be thinking along the lines of 'how do I stop this.' Even more seemed scared almost witless. Bad enough to get run over by the Reapers, but now there was this in a place that was supposed to be safe.

The defiance was particularly visible within the turian portion of the refugees, the last batch of them that trooped in especially. It showed in the lift of chins, the slight flare of crest on the males, the way bright eyes flashed calculatingly about.

The batarians looked fairly hostile, too. Kelly suspected if the turians started something—and she had no way of knowing how perceptive these troopers were—the batarians would jump right in.

She swallowed hard as the children were immediately separated out and herded into one of the now-empty alcoves. It didn't look like Cerberus meant to use them as leverage to keep the adults in line.

Yet.

She was starting to hate that word, _yet_. It plucked at taut nerves in the most unpleasant way possible.

Two of the troopers blocked the alcove's entrance, one facing inward, the other facing the general proceedings.

She counted thirteen total.

"Stay where I can see you."

Kelly wasn't the only one to turn to look at the terse command. Apparently, some of the children tried to disappear into the shipping containers that served as makeshift shelters.

She squeezed her eyes closed as hands jerked her forward and immediately frisked her. She didn't protest, didn't resist, simply waited to be shoved with the 'cleared' portion of the population. A strange silence hung over the whole operation, the troopers giving only terse orders, the refugees complying (however grudgingly).

"Males on the right, females on the left." The trooper indicated 'left' as being 'left as he faced the exit,' which put the females closer to the children.

She wondered how many of the batarians observed this. Gender was sometimes difficult to tell with batarians and none of these wore armor, whose fit was more suggestive than other garments.

"Alright. If you answer to one of these names, step forward. If they won't step forward, feel free to volunteer them."

Kelly clenched her teeth as the trooper read off the list. It was short. Some of the names she didn't recognize, but some of them she did. She was on the list, as were most of Shepard's associates. Thank goodness Garrus wasn't here! Shepard depended on him above all others; if he died or was killed…

…Kelly didn't like thinking about it.

"No takers?" She could feel the trooper's eyes scanning the crowds. "Have it your way."

For a moment she thought they would simply open fire on the crowd. However, they did not, which made her wonder about what their overarching orders were. She'd have expected a few executions to loosen the tongues of their prisoners.

Several troopers began moving along each group.

"Name."

Kelly looked up to what ought to be nose level. "G-Geneviève Coltrane," she answered shakily.

' _Kelly, they're not shitting around! You change your face, change your name—you need to disappear,_ ' Shepard had almost snarled. She'd been right to be concerned.

Kelly thanked her lucky stars she trusted Shepard's judgment: she'd changed her hair color, changed the style, exited and re-entered the general population, changing the fashion in which she helped.

"Authenticate."

She raised her omnitool and beamed her faked credentials. Please, please let this work…

The trooper simply nodded, moving on to the next woman.

"Where's C-Sec?" someone asked softly.

Kelly had her own theories: if C-Sec wasn't responding, it meant their personnel at the door were all dead. And if Cerberus was strutting around here, lining people up and looking for specific individuals in the single best place to hide, then C-Sec had bigger problems.

"No talking," one of the troopers barked.

One of the turians, her mandibles flared, sassed back—an idiom that Kelly's translator struggled with, yielding an incomprehensible result—before subsiding. The loathing in her eyes was impossible to mistake in spite of her sardonic smile. Loathing of the sort that might tempt even a futile action.

"Hey. We're missing someone," one of the troopers noted. The lack of perplexity in his voice—a voice all the trooper seemed to share, as if they were so many VIs—chilled her blood.

Gunfire broke out, the three-round bursts most militaries preferred, from a single rifle.


	306. Half-Cocked

Tactus couldn't believe it. If Reapers weren't enough, there were now hostile squads—Cerberus at a guess, not that he knew much about them except what was on the news—invading the docks. He'd had one stroke of luck: he'd successfully killed the trooper who reached the alcove in which he'd been.

It took about ten seconds to come up with a plan the others could get behind: wait for my signal, then jump in.

Because no one could possibly believe these troopers would just wander off once they had whatever they were after. In this case, a list of specific people, including Vakarian. He supposed they were looking for Shepard's supporters and rogue elements of their own faction.

It didn't matter. He knew how this went. He didn't like to think whether the kids were separated out as leverage…or because Cerberus thought they could be used somehow. One heard all kinds of stories in the past couple years, none of them flattering.

Laetitia's well-chosen remark almost made him smile; she'd been doing that for years. It also sounded like as good a moment to jump in as he could expect. If he knew her, she was standing as near the kids as she could get.

Tactus darted out, unloaded several three-round bursts as he moved, and took shelter behind one of the long benches. It was crap cover, but better than nothing as fire returned and chaos broke out. Screams ensued, but also shouts.

When he leaned out to return fire, he found Laetitia wrangling a trooper with an arm around his throat, her other hand in control of his gun. The best she could do was keep his head at that unnatural angle, use him as a shield as she stood between the children. Beside her, a burly batarian had the other trooper, whom Laetitia seemed to have shot with his comrade's weapon, in a similar shield-like position. The hold was inexpert.

Secondary gunfire came from a turian, just a year or two shy of boot camp, kneeling between the two troopers with the second trooper's gun. He wished Clio had never needed to kill anyone. He was grateful she could act when the situation required it.

By now, the fighting had shifted into chaos, the more timorous refugees struggling to either get back or find some scant cover to hide behind; anything to give those who could fight space in which to do it. One of the batarians, taking advantage of his bulk, body-slammed one of the troopers from his blind spot, only to be killed instantly by another trooper.

The troopers showed a remarkable lack of recoil from civilians doing something stupid. It was like it didn't even register that anything unexpected had happened.

Several of the humans tag-teamed the trooper who'd shot the batarian, one of them succeeding in getting the downed trooper's rifle, putting several rounds first into the one being swarmed, then finishing the one on the ground.

It was over so suddenly that Tactus wasn't sure what to think. Dead troopers lay scattered about, as did dead or wounded civilians. Blood pooled on the ground beneath them—most human, batarian, and turian.

"Get the kids to the back," Laetitia barked before her tone dropped, gently teasing the rifle from her shaken daughter's arms.

"Anyone without arms training, put your weapon down. Those with, arm up. We'll cover the door," Tactus declared. He was gratified to see that a voice of experience, or at least belonging to someone with a plan, was enough. Within moments, any medics were performing triage, while those with weapons training—mostly turian—armed and moved to the entryway.

The children were all shushed and hustled to the backmost space. It was safest. Also, the one place the troopers hadn't been able to execute the wounded.

Tactus' mandibles fluttered as he gave Clio and her brother Phineas a reassuring look. Clio smiled halfheartedly back at him before continuing with the herd of children, putting a comforting hand on her brother's shoulder. Phineas looked ready to break into squalls as many of the youngest children already had. Possibly the only reason he hadn't was the squirming baby in his ten-year-old arms.

More than a few parents had already rejoined their children; he was sure they couldn't be persuaded to do anything more constructive.

Thankfully, there were more hands than necessary. To dig in before sitting and waiting didn't require much manpower. Not unless Cerberus vented the dock. He hoped the two humans who'd managed to get into C-Sec's security point were working on that.

Already, the dead were being moved off to one side; he fully expected the blame game to start soon. It didn't matter: the majority had been saved. If he hadn't acted he doubted anyone would have been.

Slowly, the crying and shrieks from the newly-established _crèche_ decreased in volume and frequency. He hoped the stress would affect other species' young the way it did turians. When turian children came under high stress, going to sleep became easier. Give them a lull in action and they were out like lights.

"Sir!" one of the humans from the C-Sec checkpoint bounded up. "I've got C-Sec! They want whoever's in charge."

"Good." He awkwardly patted the young man's shoulder and followed. The other human could only be his sister, they looked so remarkably alike.

"Go ahead," the girl prompted, handing him a headset. The corpses of the C-Sec personnel were pushed to one side, their weapons lying in a 'please take me' fashion on one of the counters.

"This is Tactus down at the docks holding area. We've had an alter—"

" _Look fella, you're just going to have to bunker down!_ " a harassed female answered him. " _The whole_ _station's_ _under attack!_ "

"Shit." He wasn't the only one to say it.

" _I know. I'm sorry, but we're tapped out._ "

The _station_ was under attack? The whole thing? He shook himself. There was only one thing to do, really. "Understood."


	307. Reverse

Bailey almost didn't recognize his own voice as a scream followed screaming _pain_. What he did recognize as one of his men grabbed him and dragged him out of the line of fire was the whoosh of a shuttle. "Alliance incoming!" someone shouted.

Bailey pressed his hands against the wound, an effort that was immediately aided by the turian who had pulled him to safety. "Breathe, Commander—it's just a flesh wound."

"I feel…so much better…" Bailey grit out, gasping around the pain. "The hell's happening?" The sounds of gunfire had redoubled, a turian voice barking commands to C-Sec as though accustomed to doing so, re-coordinating the C-Sec response.

For a moment the sounds of turret fire stopped and then restarted. This time, though, the shouts and yells came from the Cerberus line—a line forced out of cover, leaving them open to the reciprocity of those C-Sec officers still on their feet.

A moment later, the turrets began exploding, hailing shrapnel to the cheers of the unfiltered voices belonging to anyone _not_ Cerberus.

The sound that followed the explosions was one of the sweetest he'd ever heard.

"Sorry, Bailey! I promise they were just little ones!"

"You're horrible!" a turian voice barked back.

"I know, I really, really am!"

Bailey pushed himself up and fell back.

"Look out!"

A series of small explosions resulted in shrieks from Cerberus and something heavy—too heavy to be moved conventionally—went crashing into the far barricade, sending shudder through the ground. "This is not a game, human!"

"I dunno…" the turian responded. "I'd have given you points for that one."

"Where are you hurt?" a voice demanded, the one who had shouted the warning.

Bailey opened his eyes without having realized he'd closed them to find himself looking into the freckled face of an asari who was already poking at the bullet hole. "What you see…is what you get," he panted.

"Bailey!" Shepard with Vakarian at her shoulder appeared a second later, taking a knee.

"Still alive…" Bailey gritted out.

"The bullet's still in there—it'll have to be removed later. The best we can do is seal the wound and not let him move around too much," the asari announced, producing a tube of medigel and applying it to the wound.

"Basic painkillers," Shepard announced before pressing the hypospray into Bailey's side near the bullet hole. "Might have to strap him to his chair to keep him still, though," Shepard said, helping Bailey stand up as soon as the medigel was set.

Bailey leaned on Shepard heavily until he could get his footing back. He'd never seen Shepard in a fight, but now he understood what the fuss about her was: it had taken minutes to turn a crumbling flank into a total victory…if only a small one in the grand scheme of things.

"I take it back…" Bailey gritted out as the pain began to ebb.

"Which?" Shepard asked with a lopsided grin.

"You and explosions…just don't throw any more of my trucks…"

"Noted. Wanna tell me what you're doing out here?"

"Besides getting my ass shot off?" Bailey asked.

"We do not require explanations of the obvious," one of Shepard's comrades—a four-eyed green thing Bailey had never seen in his life—said shortly.

Bailey glared at him. "Cerberus was all over us before we knew what the hell happened. Took HQ in the first push, locked us out." It was embarrassing in the extreme, and falling back had proved nearly disastrous. "How many did we lose?" Bailey demanded loudly.

"Not as many as you could have," Vakarian answered. "Quick count was eight."

Bailey swallowed hard. Eight out here and who knew how many on the inside. It was a bad day for C-Sec. Even if they managed to oust Cerberus, the losses could be high enough to leave the station in hurting status. And emergency recruitment drives at a time like this were often counterproductive…

"We've gotta kick those assholes out of there," Bailey snarled, using anger to blunt the ache of losses and the fear of the future as he limped over to the door panel. He couldn't feel the pain, but something in his brain kept telling his body to move gingerly so as not to make it worse.

"If they have headquarters they've got the whole network," Vakarian volunteered, saving Bailey the necessity. "It means C-Sec is flying blind. Scrambles our responses."

"Turns them into a damn clusterfuck is what it does," Bailey growled. C-Sec headquarters had always been deemed impregnable. Well…apparently not, which gave him some hope of taking it back. The only problem was that they didn't have an apparently unlimited number of heavily armored shock troops, the mechs he'd heard screamed reports about, or drop shuttles to move troops around before the general frequencies cut out.

The sheer amount of men and materiel pulled from apparently nowhere, secreted around the Citadel without anyone noticing staggered him. He hated to think about it, but it seemed to him that C-Sec had had more than a couple bad apples.

"They've had time to lock down the Presidium," Bailey continued, "but they don't need much more than that. Everything that matters is up here." He didn't say so, but Cerberus could even vent the station if they knew how to go about it.

"It is foolish to group vital functions so close together," the green thing stated.

"Maybe you should take it up with the Protheans—they built the damn thing," Bailey snapped.

"We did not."

Bailey stopped in his effort and looked over his shoulder, then shook his head. Worry about the green asshole later.

"Bailey, do you know anything about the Councilors?" Shepard asked.

Bailey sighed. "Esheel was meeting with the Executor." Shepard groaned at this. "The other three…C-Sec teams assigned to them don't report in to me if they've got a Spectre breathing down their necks."

With a coup like this, he didn't expect any courtesy messages from said Spectres. Too risky.


	308. On Little Cat Feet

"Psst."

Khalisa bint Sianan al-Jilani nearly jumped out of her skin at the softly hissed sound. She looked around nervously as she keyed in the recorded announcement and looped it.

"Up here."

She looked up to find nothing but a ventilation duct high on the wall…and behind it a faint shadow. "What…who…?"

A moment later the grate fell, caught by a blue-green hand with quick reflexes. "Cerberus is killing any civilians they come across. We need to get you out of here." Lithe as a cat, the owner of the hand slithered out of the duct.

If she had to judge, she'd have put him in his late teens—but she wasn't a great judge of age among aliens. His brow furrowed as he studied the door. "I'm trying to get as many of you out as I can. Come on—I'll give you a boost, then take you to the Keeper tunnels. There's a way into the Wards marked along them; you'll bypass Cerberus altogether. They don't have control of anything but the Presidium."

Normally, Khalisa would have had serious questions for such unsought for help. In this instance, though, as gunfire began to sound outside the door… "Alright. Give me a boost." Cerberus wasn't interested in aliens, after all.

"Good." The lad put the grating down and laced his hands so she could put her foot in them. "Slide in on the left and head into the junction. Use it to move to the side so I can get ahead of you."

Khalisa put her foot in his hands and struggled as she rose slowly. The change in positon of the boosting hands allowed her to lurch ungracefully into the tunnel. He took hold of her ankle and settled her foot against his shoulder. She pushed against them and scuttle forward, found the junction he'd referred to and waited.

The lad followed her up, pulling the grating back into place and fastening it with a small screwdriver. Then, he hastily pulled himself forward, reminding her of an eel in a tube. The duct was not spacious and felt very flimsy. "You've got to move carefully or you'll make a lot of noise. It's easier once you get to the Keeper tunnels. Follow me."

Khalisa hitched up her skirts and knotted them as best she could. They weren't meant for scrambling around ventilation and would definitely contribute to noises she didn't need to make.

It seemed to take forever before the lad slipped out of ventilation, then reached up to help her out herself—going headfirst was unpleasant but she couldn't very well shift to go feet first. The landing was ungainly and scraped her legs badly, but it was better than being dead or trapped and waiting to be killed.

"These are the Keeper tunnels—Cerberus's goons don't fit through a lot of the transitional frames. Just follow the marks on the wall." He touched a wall and indicated a black arrow pointing away from the vents.

"How'd you know about this?" she asked.

The lad just shrugged. "Get into the Wards and no one will ever know you were up here. Be careful."

-J-

"Wait—"

Kolyat Krios didn't wait for whatever the woman was going to say. He'd learned from the first civilian he'd rescued in similar fashion that once they were out of immediate danger, the fact that there were others in similar predicaments didn't matter. Not to them, anyway.

But it mattered to him. It might not be the bravest thing he could be doing, but it was _something_.

C-Sec was a big place, and he knew that his efforts were just a drop in a bucket. He didn't know enough about electronics and tech to do anything useful in that direction. One pistol wasn't going to do much good against the Cerberus forces moving freely throughout the building, so his own bullets were pretty useless.

He'd promised his father he wouldn't get captured…but getting killed would be worse, so stupid antics were off the table, however brave and honorable they might be.

His elbow knocked lightly against the side of the vent and he stopped moving in order to adjust his limbs. This was not a comfortable or easy way to travel, though he found that his light build suited him to it more than the humans and asari he'd managed to slip out.

He moved ahead again, then stopped again as harsh voices came up from below. He flattened himself where he was, listening. The conversation meant nothing to him, nor did it seem to contain anything particularly useful. He waited, though, until the voices moved on before continuing himself.

He always stopped to listen if he was close enough to do so. One never knew what information might crop up…or to what use it could be put.

He knew logically that C-Sec would eventually push back. What he didn't understand why they were taking so long to do it. C-Sec stood for Citadel _Security_ after all. So why weren't they getting back into their own building and pushing Cerberus out? The questions ate at him as he moved through the vents.

After a long span of searching, he had to admit that the likelihood of finding anyone else to extract was low. So, rather than continue what began to feel like pointless searching, he considered his mental map of the facility—those parts of it he'd encountered, and set off for the nearest Cerberus hub.

He could listen. He could wait. And if something happened worth noticing, he could join in, whatever it was. The plan seemed sound. It was a better plan than roaming around…even if part of him wondered if that roving might be a better use of his time and efforts.

He shut his eyes, steeled himself, picked a course of action, then started forward again. The distinct impression that it didn't matter what he did, he'd find himself wishing he'd done the other thing weighed down on him.


	309. Reorg

"Commander?"

Shepard looked up, leveling her pistol, then stopped, though she didn't lower the weapon. "Come out slowly."

A dry laugh. "No other way to do it, really." The venting fell free, but a hand deftly caught it as a skinny drell in his late teens slithered out to land gracefully on the ground. He regarded her with a guarded expression thinly veneered with humor. He looked better than the last time she saw him, which wasn't difficult, but she'd take what she could get.

And he seemed to be in one piece. "Kolyat," she sighed, putting her pistol back.

" _What?_ " Thane demanded over the radio link.

"Thane is going to have _kittens_. What are you doing here?" she asked, anticipating Thane's question.

"Yeah…you _definitely_ work with my father…" Kolyat grimaced. "I'm trying to _help_."

" _I told him to get into the Wards where he would be safe,_ " Thane sighed, sounding part exasperated and part approving and thoroughly flummoxed as to which he felt more.

Shepard didn't grin at this, but she wanted to. Welcome, she thought, to the wonderful world of having a teenager. At least he was sneaking out to help instead of hanging out with sketchy friends. Not that she could or would ever say something like that.

"But there's only so long you can extract people before there's no one left. Don't worry. There are a few pockets, too big for me to do much about and several are C-Sec—mostly injured who were able to get out of the way and bunker down. Cerberus stopped going room to room when the Commander arrived. Give me a map and I can pinpoint them for you."

"…"

Shepard had to grin at this, but wiped it off as quickly as she could. She wanted to tell him 'just be proud' but since Thane wasn't technically supposed to be on the channel…

Bailey did not wait, but handed over a datapad. "Good work, son."

Kolyat ignored this and immediately began making annotations.

"Chalk one up for perfect recall," Garrus rumbled, watching the additions.

"…ye-es," Kolyat faltered before handing the datapad back to Bailey.

Which told Shepard he'd also seen a bit more than perfect recall might wish.

"They're in force but spread out. From what I can tell, they're after the Council, but someone's thrown a wrench into that plan. Some rapid response no one expected," Kolyat continued. "They think that one of the Councilors is here, but no one's seen anything to prove it."

"Commander Bailey, I have control of camera function. Encrypting. Routing…done. I have established three new channels of communication and am working to tap the former mainlines."

"…thanks…" Bailey said uneasily, studying the synthetic from the corners of his eyes.

"You are welcome."

"This doesn't make any sense," Liara frowned. "The Illusive Man is delusional but he's not stupid. This is doomed to fail."

"I dunno, they were doing a pretty damn good job before you people rolled in," Bailey noted.

"Disrupting the Council simply adds to the chaos—we won't have decent leaders, just the ones we can get to quickest," Garrus intervened. "Bad plan, but like Bailey said."

"Hey, I'm man enough to own it," the commander answered, raising his hands in surrender then wincing as he did so.

"Kolyat, I'm making you Bailey's gofer. You can help, but you'll be out of the fighting." Shepard pinned him what a look. "I hope you understand."

" _Thank you, Shepard,_ " Thane breathed.

It made sense: the kid was already there and he wanted to help. He could do it from a position of strength. Her only concern was the kid not knowing his limits.

In this, Kolyat surprised her. He looked back at her somberly. "I want to help and I'm not proud. If this is where I'll be of most use, then I'll stay."

"Good man," Shepard found her smile nostalgic.

" _He is certainly becoming one._ " The quiet pride did her soul some good, especially because she could hear the tearing wheeze even though Thane seemed to be in a position to get his breath back.

"Not everyone knows how to pick their battles."

Kolyat shrugged and Shepard went back to the conversation into which Javik had joined. "—the Citadel first and destroyed our consolidated leadership. The Reapers failed in this when they arrived; why not find a way to actuate such an act? It still serves their purpose."

"So now the Illusive Man is Indoctrinated?" Garrus frowned. "He's crazy, not stupid. He knows enough about Reaper tech and he's enough of a control freak not to want to risk it."

"From what I understand, your Illusive Man is a fool. We had those like him in my Cycle," Javik answered cuttingly. "He loses control of what he seeks to master and then wipes it out. But the Reapers are not like other beings. Depend upon it: he sent someone to study something of the Reapers and that 'someone' brought enough back with him to eventually affect his master. Stow an artifact in his office or his quarters long enough…" Javik's hand motion was eloquent.

"That actually sounds way too likely," Shepard sighed, running a hand through her hair. "But we're wasting time. Any sign of Esheel, EDI…or Bailey…" Shepard added when Bailey glared at her. Apparently he would prefer to be addressed rather than Shepard's so-helpful AI hacker.

"I've got her bodyguards and the Executor—all dead. But I'm not seeing _her_ anywhere. Paranoid salarian, she might have a tactical cloak…I hope so," Bailey grumbled, shaking his head.

"Alright. Garrus, stay here and do what you can." She knew very well that C-Sec was where Garrus had roots. It would be a distraction he didn't need, trying to press on while worried about people he knew here. "You know them and you know us—just in case we need to collaborate under pressure."

This time Bailey did not take issue with the remark. "I'll walk you through. Get a move on."


	310. Grey

Garrus had to beat back the rage and part of him was glad Shepard had left him here. Ostensibly, he was helping coordinate and retake C-Sec. The fact was that he had roots here and would be distracted. They'd both known it and as loath as he was to let personal considerations get in the way…

Well. They really did need someone at C-Sec, someone on their own team. A 'just in case' measure provided for a plethora of reasons. It might as well be him, since he was known to C-Sec and would be more readily accepted than someone else.

Like Javik. He had to admit though, that Javik's deadpan 'we did not' in response to Bailey's 'the Protheans built the Citadel' comment had been hilarious. It was far less amusing now; not even the memory of it did anything to alleviate the grim expression making various muscles in his face ache.

There were just too many dead, Garrus thought grimly as his team moved cautiously through the torturous halls of C-Sec headquarters, trying to find any remaining Cerberus units that might be lurking. The problem was that there were plenty of places to lurk and internal surveillance was patchy at best. He knew Shepard would be doing something technical as she moved on towards her objective to try to restore some functionality…but the Council was what mattered.

Damn Udina. He'd always thought the man was an idiot and completely obnoxious…but this was a total surprise. True, holding the Presidium meant holding the Citadel, but there were Spectres…

…ah. He would bet hard credits—or a full bottle of Cipritine Best Brandy—that Udina had gathered information on the Spectres so that Cerberus could kill or slow them down.

Which made him wonder why Alenko seemed to have been relatively unhindered if he'd responded so quickly…

…Thane. Thane would have taken precautions to ensure that Shepard's enemies couldn't gather intelligence about Alenko's whereabouts. Thane knew Cerberus would be too happy to make use of any of Shepard's old cohorts—by killing them if not by trying to use them as leverage. He blessed the man's forethought. Shepard had mentioned Thane had volunteered to watch over Alenko while she couldn't. He hadn't realized how seriously or to what extent the drell would go.

He pulled himself back to the present as he regarded a puddle of mingled blue and red blood, the owners lying close together as if one had been trying to get the other out of the line of fire.

They'd spared nothing and no one: some of the showers were full of blood, others had been running so that which was spilled had all spiraled down the drain long before. Too many personnel had been shot in the back, indicating inside agents.

Damn, but Cerberus loved their sleepers. That meant that recruiting in hopes of making up some of the losses was out. More sleepers would worm their way back in and that was unthinkable.

Garrus drew his mandibles tightly to his chin, kneeling beside another corpse. He stopped at all of them, turning them over, dreading to see another familiar face.

Eddie was okay though, and that was something. But he'd seen more than too many familiar faces…and a couple familiar nametags because there was simply no face left.

They turned a corner and found several Cerberus bodies piled up, as if someone had held out against them. A river of blue blood led to a crumpled body, half hidden by one of the ornamental planters.

The turian was in plain clothes, but Garrus couldn't tell if he was breathing. He didn't have a gun in his hand, though.

"Lantar!" Eddie gasped, pushing Garrus aside as he knelt, ignoring the blood seeping into the knees of his trousers. He carefully tapped the turian's neck.

Garrus' stomach twisted as he peered more closely at the face. Sure enough, Lantar Sidonis lay in a pool of his own blood in a back hall at C-Sec headquarters.

Sidonis drew a slight breath, opening his eyes blearily at Eddie's call and touch. His eyes wandered over Eddie's face in semi-recognition, then passed beyond Eddie's face to fix upon Garrus'.

Garrus didn't know how to feel as he frowned down at the reason twelve good men were dead. The poisonous anger he'd struggled so hard against during the Collector hunt twisted in his gut, threatening to erupt again.

Sidonis said nothing, but rolled his eyes towards the other side of the corridor before looking back at him. Sidonis' eyes said it all before they went black: _I tried._

Tried what, though? Garrus glanced back at the Cerberus bodies, then at the doors to the hall. The one nearest Sidonis on the opposite side—the one Sidonis had tried to indicate—showed damage and the locking mechanism was out.

Ignoring Eddie's entreaties for Sidonis to come back around, then his grim declaration that the turian was really dead, Garrus got to his feet and examined the lock. He'd seen this before. Sidonis did this thing to ensure locks couldn't be salvaged—one had to physically force the door open. It had been a useful thing from time to time.

It looked like Cerberus had tried to get in, to see what he'd been protecting. The door was warped enough for Garrus to peer in…but there was nothing in there. Nothing and no one.

So either whoever it was was still in there or had found another way out. "Anyone in there?" he called. "This is C-Sec officer Vakarian."

Silence.

Garrus sighed. He hoped the case was that someone had found another way out of the room.

Eddie looked more than a little upset as he got to his feet.

Garrus looked back down at Sidonis, the man's last expression etched on his plated features. He didn't know what to think. He didn't know what to feel.

He did the only thing he could: he shouldered his rifle and continued along the hallway.


	311. Tradeoff

Author's Note: At my own mother's suggestion… here are two more chapters for Mother's Day. Moms: I take my hat off to you.

-J-

Kai Leng felt his muscles tense involuntarily as Shepard regained her footing amidst the smashed glass. She had the look of a hunting creature stamped all over her; the problem was that she had begun relying on the energies afforded by adrenaline and battle highs, not on cold blood and precision. It showed in the flush of her cheeks and the over-brightness of those vivid eyes.

"Shepard, he's going to kill us all," the salarian said in a dying whisper.

That was the problem with hostages and human shields—they only worked if the other person cared. And, in this case, Esheel was the only thing slowing Shepard and her pack of hounds down. It was one of the reasons for optical cybernetics: a person could never quite tell where he was looking. In this case, he had one eye on Shepard and the other planning escape routes.

She was promptly joined by an asari, with a hard-edged look; a synthetic—there was no way that wasn't Cerberus property running around; another human who had the aspect of the average grunt with above average pretensions; the green thing he didn't recognize, but putting two and two together he assumed it was what Shepard had snatched away on Eden Prime.

They were formidable enough, but he was well-trained enough to know how to play odds and at the moment they weren't in his favor.

"That remains to be seen. Turn it off, now." Shepard's tone said this warning was simply formality.

He did feel a moment of doubt as to whether she was willing to shoot through the Councilor.

"I mean Udina," the salarian continued, her voice shaking. Her chest shuddered with breath, and Leng's mind recoiled. The salarian was terrified but not enough that she couldn't speak what she knew. That did remove an edge from the contention…but if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that Shepard's crew would fall apart without her. She was the nucleus charge holding all those electrons in place; without her, they dispersed and were useless, scooped up here and there or fizzling into nothingness.

It had happened before. It could happen again…

"He's staging a coup—the other Councilors are walking into a trap!" Esheel hurried on, shaking her head.

"Esheel. I need you to hold very, _very_ still," Shepard said, glaring at Leng. "It's over."

His mouth twisted into a smile. "No, now it's f—"

Only quick reflexes and the tiny sound of a dry rattling breath saved his life.

He pivoted where he stood, knocking away the pistol brought to bear on his head. The drell turned the repulsion into a whipcord movement, changing momentum to serve his turn before throwing it back at Leng. The motions were easy, fluid…and the man hit like a truck. A truly trained fighter—but Leng knew him. He was one of the ones to watch for: Shepard's pet assassin.

The sound of labored breathing filled the air, but the assassin's movements gave no sign of impediment—a true show of mind over matter. And, make no mistake, this was the single-minded attentiveness of determination, of a man who was already dead and whose body simply hadn't gotten the memo. More than that…

Leng threw the assassin to the ground, let the man roll away from him. Shepard had pulled Esheel to safety, the salarian now huddled behind the asari, whose barrier was close enough to impenetrable as far as he was concerned.

Damn.

The problem—for them—was that Shepard and her team couldn't get a bead on him, no one being willing to risk shooting the drell.

There was no way she would have shot through Esheel to get to him. He'd made a mistake in that moment of doubt and had lost the opportunity to kill this Councilor.

It rankled him that this dying drell, whose difficulty breathing was growing increasingly more pronounced, had interfered with his objective.

There was only one thing to do, and he'd have done it even if it wasn't necessary. She cared about this drell in a way she didn't care about the Councilor. There was a way to use that.

The drell came to his feet, but Leng had already activated his tactical cloak. He hated using the thing, but when he knew he could be facing many opponents it was simply prudential.

Shepard and her minions fanned out, the asari remaining still, her umbrella of protection sheltering the Councilor.

His sneak attack didn't work. The drell turned as if he'd known he was there all along, ending momentum with a powerful kick.

For a second, a brief few seconds, Leng wondered if he might have bitten off more than he could chew. The man wasn't afraid to die but Leng was good enough at reading people to know that this was a battle of devotion, not obligation—and devotion to _her_ , notto her cause—

Leng hit the ground, knocked back by a biotic punch that left his sternum feeling shattered. It was almost as if the drell had sensed where his thoughts had gone and promptly sought to knock them out of his head. Leng rolled and regained his feet, literally seconds ahead of the hail of fire from the drell.

It was then that Leng realized what the drell was doing: the man was forcing him to show his cards, one by one, so that Shepard would know what to expect in future. The drell wasn't concerned about dying today; all he cared about was using his death to her benefit.

There was a word for that kind of devotion, and Leng found the idea absolutely deviant.

All it took to stop the exhibition was getting in close—he took a nasty blow to the face which by the feel of it broke his nose to accomplish it—but the deed was done.

Before the drell's momentum stopped he had six inches of steel poking out of his back.


	312. The Needs of the One

Pain seared through him, white hot and ice cold at the same moment. He stifled the gasp as the sword was wrenched free. He staggered as the assassin took to his heels, Shepard's pistol barking after him. His hands went to the wound to staunch the blood, but he knew the truth: the wound was mortal. After a split-second of reflection, he felt surety: if he had to die—and that was imminent anyway—it was better to go out like this than finish the slow decay of Kepral's.

"Thane!" Shepard's voice cut across the silence of his existence.

' _Garrus!_ ' _Her voice cut across the noise of battle, a sharp cry of distress, a rallying shout for the turian to get back up. Her face went white, the pink of exertion turning red. Her eyes were too large in her face, too bright: she was watching part of herself die—though whether that was the truth or not was unclear. But for that moment, when cold fear gripped her, in that instant before she redirected her fire, he knew he never wanted that look to come to her face on his account._

She caught him as he swayed and carefully lowered him to the ground. He could smell her through the bitter tang of his own blood: sweat and adrenaline, and something soft, clean and almost powdery.

It took so much effort not to let his knees give out during those last few inches.

He waved her off as best he could. Her eyes were so bright; he could almost see the conflict between a wounded teammate and wanting to run after the one responsible for the injury written in them. "I'm alright—go on! Stop him!" Thane growled, keeping the pain out of his voice.

Shepard was already getting up, having waited only for the word 'alright.' "Liara—stay with him! Get him to the hospital ASAP!" She took off at a sprint, the rest of her cohorts following hot on her heels. "Javik—get Esheel out of here!"

Liara came to kneel beside him, Councilor Esheel hovering anxiously in the background.

Now that Shepard was not there to hear it, he let his breaths come labored, stopped trying to beat back the pain.

"It's fatal, isn't it?" Liara asked gently, producing a tube of medigel, her fingers dancing around the entry wound. The medigel was insufficient without a medical patch, first. The wound might have been less damaging—survivable, even—but the assassin knew how to work a sword: he'd twisted it to ensure maximum damage from a single thrust. If he hadn't…

"Yes. And she'll take it hard." Thane pursed his lips. It was that thought, above all other concerns, that worried him. Shepard carried her dead with her. He'd known this about her for a long time. It was desperately important that his weight not add to that burden.

"She will," Liara agreed.

 _Her eyes were like fires behind colored lenses, intense and all-consuming rage had taken hold of her. Her face was paler than usual, a bloodless white that left her lips and cheeks unnaturally scarlet. She was all rage and righteous anger; no depiction of Arashu's angels that he saw had ever come close to capturing the promise of retribution stamped across Shepard's being. That was when he truly knew her to be all that he had believed: siha._

"Thane?" Voice intruded upon memory. Pressure on the wound, designed to use pain to refocus his attention, followed. He gasped again, then choked, his lungs refusing the demands of his body. He couldn't feel his feet and his fingers moved only slowed, as though half-numb. "Thane, stay with me. Cortez! We have an injury and the Salarian Councilor. Bring the shuttle in, quickly! It's okay, Thane. We'll get you out of this."

 _She sat across from him, weight resting heavily on the table, head bowed. Her shoulders sagged but there was something in her posture to suggest that she accepted the burden upon them. Now, however, she seemed at peace, resting in the silence and the stillness but taking comfort from the companionship._

 _She had admitted it was strange having him as a friend: it was a friendship built more on silence than anything else._

 _He told her it was the best kind of friendship: the kind in which one need not say anything but in which ears were always available should the need for them arise._

 _She smiled, then, tired and rueful._

"Thane!"

The voice wasn't hers.

"Thane, wake up, dammit!"

It was edged with panic, though.

Thane opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—to find himself looking up at the ceiling of a shuttle. "Shepard?" he asked.

"Nothing yet. You let Shepard mind herself," a voice from the cockpit declared. "She's good at it. You mind you and stay the hell awake."

Liara snorted softly. "Hang in there, we're almost to the hospital."

He'd lost too much blood, though, and he became aware of his own breathing—that it was fast and shallow, and not even the oxygen mask, product of the eviscerated medical kit lying nearby, helped the dizziness or the tingling. He could no longer feel his fingers.

' _Family is important,' she said heavily. 'I'm glad to have helped. It's…a precious thing.'_

A precious thing. "Liara." It was so important that she not carry this death—his death—with her. Her burdens were too numerous; they must not include his death. It was better this way—painful now, but the pain would cease, eventually. He would be beyond all this, in a place where the affairs of the galaxy could no longer touch him.

While she would remain behind, suffer pain and doubt and loss. She must not be distracted by the 'failure' she would assign to herself when he slipped his mortal chains.

"We're here!" the pilot barked. "A team's _en route_ to pick him up. Hang in there, man."

He had to. He had to tell her…


	313. Sword

EDI knelt by the Cerberus corpse, wrenching the sword from the dead-fingered grasp. It was light, lethal, elegant…and in the hands of an organic a liability. Case in point. No one in this day and age actually _used_ swords for practical purposes—not even the turians and human marines who carried them as part of their dress uniforms.

But she (shorthand: liked) the feel of it. It was…unique. She was not fool enough to think that an AI with a mobile platform and a sword would bother indoctrinated troops, but as she lashed the weapon through the air in front of her, something about the weapon felt…right.

She didn't have 'guts,' so she could not call it 'gut instinct' as many species who did have them called those little hunches that lacked empirical data. However, there was a spark somewhere in her processor and, until she had evidence to the contrary, it was enough.

She diverted processing power as she caught up with Shepard's group, streaming everything she could find about swordsmanship across the galaxy. In a tight corner, her crewmen might find it preferable for her not to wield a gun. She might be perfectly secure in where her bullets ended up, but organics were…skittish…like that. Especially with what they considered 'near misses.'

And she wanted to test the assertion that it was embarrassing for an enemy to be killed by their own weapon. Perhaps Cerberus drones were not the best subjects, but they were on hand. And, perhaps, she would discuss the matter with members of the crew later.

"Battle trophy, huh?" Vega asked (Vega: wry-humor).

EDI nodded at him. "Yes."

"Bailey! Where's the Council now?" Shepard demanded.

" _They're heading for a shuttle. Have your guy with him—the biotic. Shepard, they've got a tail: a guy with a sword_."

"Look alive!" Shepard barked, sending several shots downrange almost as soon as she'd spoken. The shots lodged in the elevator doors, but did not other damage.

Up ahead, the elevator door sweeping shut, were the Assassin and several of those white-clad whatever-they-were.

"I just found him! Bailey! He's in the elevators at my location!" Shepard snapped, taking off at a jog to close the distance.

"I can get us a car," EDI announced, walking up to the elevator's control pad and wrenching it free. A moment and one tight band interface later, the doors opened on the other elevator, revealing the top of the car.

" _Huh…see you already got a car. Hop on. I can handle the elevator controls._ "

For a moment, Shepard teetered on leaving Vega to provide reinforcements…but there were no do-overs with this. She needed all the hands she could get.

" _I'm also sending Vakarian out with reinforcements. They know to holler before going through any doors,_ " Bailey noted.

"Right. Up we go," Shepard declared as she, Vega, and EDI climbed onto the car.

The car jerked as began a rapid upward ascent.

"Shepard. I have accessed C-Sec's elevator overrides. Their lockdown makes such control awkward. It is, perhaps, better to let Capt. Bailey continue."

"I understand." Shepard (Shepard: seethed) the longer she had to wait. "Bailey, tell me that bastard hasn't made the Council."

" _Oh, he's trying. But I'm making his elevator stop at every floor_."

"Nice. Turn up the elevator music; it'd drive anyone crazy."

Vega grinned, nodding approval.

Bailey chuckled at this. " _Done. We'll see how it go—Shepard! You're coming up on his car! On your right!_ "

EDI raised her pistol, her faster reaction times leaving her better able to adjust to the abrupt appearance of the other elevator. She let off four shots at the power conduits, which stopped—or dropped—the car. She found she had no particular preference as long as the threat abated.

"Nice shooting," Shepard declared, offhandedly. "Bailey, EDI nailed it."

" _You've got a load of those jumpy things incoming,_ " Bailey announced seconds later.

"Shepard, go on!" EDI called. "I will stop them."

Shepard looked ready to argue, but shook her head sharply. "They're all yours! Don't get dead! Vega—with me!"

EDI found the right direction by sound, then jumped over the edge of her car and landed squarely on the one carrying the aggressors. There were three, all of them light and lithe, like the swords they carried. They didn't seem surprised to see her and, thus, didn't flinch or recoil.

Unfortunately for them, she was light and lithe, too, and ever so much more precise when moving. She was glad her mobile platform's optics allowed for high-speed footage capture. She pivoted, sword lashing out only to follow up with two shots from her pistol. Duck to avoid the blow coming in from behind, shoot as the two opponents had to recalibrate so as not to kill one another. Pivot again, this time executing a perfect lunge.

Behind her came a sound she did not want to hear: the sound of an elevator car screaming past.

She hissed as one of the swords clipper her, cutting shallow into the dermal-equivalent at her waist. "Shepard, you have company incoming."

She jerked the sword laterally, tearing it free of the organic, turning the momentum into a pivot to catch the next one across the belly before shooting it as it reacted to pain.

So they _could_ feel pain.

That left only one more. For a moment, she found herself confronted with a flurry of blades, the weapons' edges glittering as they clashed against one another. She wondered if the thing could still feel (shorthand: fear); even she had self-preservation algorithms.

She had an opening before the Cerberus thing did and took it, the blade taking the thing's arm off just below the elbow before she sent her sword expertly cleaving through the neck. Being stronger than a human, the blade only hitched on the bones in the neck before slicing the rest of the way through.

She paused to reference Shepard's tracking data. "Shepard. The assassin's reinforcements will not be joining you."

There was no answer.


	314. Words

Shepard and Vega barged out of the elevator, EDI's assurance in their ears. She shut the doors, planting the tech mine in her hand over the control panel. It blew within fractions of a second, would have burned her fingers if she wasn't in armor. She backed away, hoping the elevator was compromised enough to prevent the assassin or his backup from getting through. Even if it was only a few minutes, all she had to do was get an alternate means of transportation out here…

She didn't have time to fuss over the elevator or put in a call to Cortez. She spun around, weapon leveled to identify the next threat—to find Udina—only to find herself within a few meters of Alenko, both of them with weapons drawn.

"Shepard?" Alenko's brow creased, but his weapon remained steady.

"Alenko, this isn't what you're thinking," Shepard said, trying to sound very sane and very rational…

…she was not sure she succeeded, for as soon as she found Udina, focused on him, Alenko sidestepped to block any shooting vector she or Vega might have.

"I'm thinking that it looks pretty bad for you to show up like this, right now, with a gun drawn on the Council."

It was true, she knew, but there wasn't exactly another way to come _out_ of that elevator, the situation being what it was. He only had half the picture, if that, and if she wasn't careful he'd draw the other half and come up with the wrong answer.

Shepard resisted the urge to shuffle her own footing, to try to bring Udina back into view. Suddenly, realization, a crystallization of snippets of fact suddenly elicited a breathless chuckle. She'd been duped, the great, infallible Captain Shepard had been played like a fiddle, and by the last person she expected to be able to do it, because she disliked and distrusted him so much. "Udina…you son of a bitch…" She lowered her weapon a few inches, inwardly cursing herself even as her mouth smiled.

Somehow, she should have seen it coming. She might agree, and be unbiased while doing so, that Alenko really was Spectre material. It was something she had realized on the Mars mission; the past few years had done a great many things to a great many people, drawing out strengths not previously fully realized. However 'capable'—to use Liara's word—he had become, he was still a by-the-book kind of man, still held her Cerberus connections in some suspicion, still hadn't publicly made it clear that he trusted her motivations or intentions.

He was the perfect gun to point in her direction.

He was the perfect shield to keep her bullet from finding Udina's center of mass.

Udina was banking on her inability to shoot through a teammate, banking on a compromised teammate to shoot at her. How long had he been Cerberus' pawn? He'd gotten messages through to her before, while she'd still been on Cerberus' payroll…did his involvement go back that far? Did he really think he could hold power if the Council died? There were plenty of Spectres on the Citadel…or was there a list somewhere, compromising the identities of those truly covert operatives?

Shepard tried desperately to discard the notions of her own stupidity and Udina's duplicity. She should have smelled a rat the instant she thought the air was clear. How had she been so stupid as to believe that a little crisis like Reapers in Earth's backyard would be enough to make a reasonable individual out of Donnel Udina?

She'd given the man too much credit.

"Alenko, you're being played—you all are," Shepard took a deep breath, herd the elevator start up behind her. "This isn't a random Cerberus attack—this is about Udina and his usual MO: power. It's a coup, and he thinks he's going to come out on top."

"Listen to this rubbish! Where's your proof Shepard?" Before Shepard could volunteer putting Esheel on the line, Udina snorted. "There _is_ no proof—she _never_ has any."

"The last time I offered proof to this Council it got written off as a geth attack," Shepard pointed out, glancing over her shoulder. The elevator was in motion…and rising. Heat pulsed through her body, and not pleasantly. That psycho son of a bitch was in there…

She dragged her attention back to Alenko. "And 'proof' is currently savaging the galaxy. I'm telling you: this elevator is full of Cerberus assassins and Udina is going to get all of you killed."

"Which is why it all makes sense," Udina retorted. "She's working for Cerberus—with us gone, who could stand in their way? And what better way," he added, "to get back at us for not taking her words sight unseen for so long?"

He had a point, and the argument did seem logical. Even Shepard had to admit that the accusation sounded like human nature…well, the human nature of the late Eva Rogers.

"Shepard?" Alenko asked, clearly in hopes that she had something with which to counter this.

She wished she had something to give him, but she didn't. All she had were words, and the knowledge that they words weren't actual proof.

Shepard met his gaze unflinchingly, lifted her pistol again, pursed her lips, and shook her head from side to side. She didn't have to kill him, she could wing him…if she had to. Then it hit her, the words that might diffuse the situation or, at least, force Udina to act. The man couldn't play chicken with soldiers. "Alenko, Udina is banking on the fact that I won't shoot you…but that you'll shoot the Illusive Man's puppet. A traitor."

Alenko couldn't see, but Shepard did. For a moment Udina had, unwittingly, shuffled out from behind Alenko's protective bulk, and the words shocked him. Clearly he had banked on her not wanting to compromise a good soldier's confidence, either. She glanced back at the elevator. They were running out of time…


	315. Broken Crown

Donnel Udina wanted to scream as Captain Shepard threw herself out of the elevator (followed by a sturdy marine) and sealed it with the brisk ease of someone accustomed to such actions. Her skin was flushed with exertion so when she turned her eyes seemed to jump out of her face like beacons—beacons that lit on him before they did more than take in the general situation.

He'd always felt she was a reactionary with no sense of the big picture. That hadn't changed. All that had changed was that his usual sense of grim resignation and irritated attempts at patience with her had turned to fear. It was in her eyes: she was going to kill him and no one, no Councilor, no Spectre, no former comrade was going to stop her. One of them wasn't going to walk away from this platform.

For the first time, she didn't look at him as someone she despised. There was blame there. There was hatred there.

His eyes darted to the back of Alenko's head. He still marveled how the man had managed to get to the Council so quickly. Cerberus had been so adamant that the best way to stop Spectre interference was to visit them before events truly kicked off. But either Alenko had chewed them up and spat them back out or they had never crossed his path.

Still, Cerberus _had_ managed to remove the senior Spectre with the group which left Alenko as the Council's sole protector. Alenko wasn't half as decisive a personality as Shepard he liked the idea of himself and the chain of command being on the same side. No, his presence as the second human Spectre was useful for this moment and this moment only: something to stand between Udina and Shepard's weapon.

"Shepard?"

Her eyes jerked to regard Alenko, but Udina felt sure she would never let him out of her sight. The pistol concealed beneath his jacket suddenly felt heavy, lead-like. His aim wasn't good; he'd never shoot her at this distance…and he wasn't sure he could be fast enough to kill two people even at close range.

Sweat began to bead on his forehead, cold trickles running down his skin.

Damn it! Cerberus was supposed to have killed her already!

"Alenko, this isn't what you're thinking."

Alenko must have noticed where the majority of her attention was because he moved into a better position to protect his charges.

"I'm thinking that it looks pretty bad for you to show up like this, right now, with a gun drawn on the Council." Alenko's tone said he wanted a logical explanation…which meant that they hadn't rifted as far apart as Udina believed.

He wanted to shout 'don't talk, just shoot her!' because he'd seen enough of Shepard to know that if she could present her case she usually got what she wanted. His empty guts churned. His confidence in Alenko's antipathy towards Shepard eroded moment by moment.

Shepard's expression suddenly opened up, the metaphorical lightbulb appearing over her head. Her attention moved past Alenko, pinning Udina like a butterfly in a display box. "Udina…you son of a bitch…" It was less that he heard her and more than he saw the words form on her lips.

If she'd needed to kill him before, in order to preserve the idealism she fought so hard for, then her focus had changed: she _wanted_ to kill him for having pointed her like a bazooka at an old friend…and for priming that old friend against her.

Her pistol lowered a few inches, loathing etching itself into her features.

He had a moment of smug satisfaction as he watched her. She wasn't the only one who could create dupes or beneficial scenarios.

"Alenko, you're being played—you all are. This isn't a random Cerberus attack—this is about Udina and his usual MO: power. It's a coup, and he thinks he's going to come out on top." Her voice shook a little, but her attention remained fixed on him.

"Listen to this rubbish! Where's your _proof_ Shepard?" His inquiry was met with a thinning of Shepard's lips. So, Leng _had_ managed to kill Esheel. There was no point invoking a dead Councilor—the question as to why the Councilor was dead and she was present would arise. "There _is_ no proof. She _never_ has any."

The elevator behind Shepard indicated a carriage on the rise. Shepard's words grew hastier. "The last time I offered proof to this Council it got written off as a geth attack, and 'proof' is currently savaging the galaxy. I'm telling you: this elevator is full of Cerberus assassins and Udina is going to get all of you killed."

"Which is why it all makes sense," Udina retorted, "she's working for Cerberus—with us gone, who could stand in their way? And what better way to get back at _us_ for not taking her words sight unseen for so long?"

Shepard's lip curled, the disgust she'd always harbored finally expressing itself in its full unvarnished intensity.

"Shepard?"

"Alenko, Udina is banking on the fact that I won't shoot you…but that you'll shoot the Illusive Man's puppet. A traitor." Her words were firm, so neutral that Udina wanted to pull his pistol and shoot her. With his aim, however, it wasn't an option.

…and if he shot Alenko—by accident or otherwise—he would be dead before Alenko hit the ground.

Udina shifted uneasily. That Alenko hadn't responded to Shepard's blunt declaration was unnerving, promising nothing good in the long run.

Udina wanted to scream: why couldn't that idiot Leng kill her? If he'd had to choose a target, why not her first? Esheel could have been taken care of later—Esheel was a slimy little salarian without a military background…

Udina saw it as if the director of a vid had been standing there to shout encouragement and directions at his actors: estranged or not, Alenko was still part of Shepard's cabal.


	316. Think

Shepard's voice was taut as she spoke, each word carefully selected and spoken. Her eyes burned in her face, her gun was steady in her hand. Alenko did not like standing between her gun and the person she wanted to point it at—it took a great deal of effort not to raise a barrier to protect himself.

That he was thinking barrier to protect himself than barrier to protect Udina—the one Shepard _really_ wanted to shoot—seemed indicative of something. At least, it did in the back of his mind where he could ignore it.

 _Think. Don't react._ He did a lot of reacting around Shepard, and not as much thinking as he should. This time, that could have disastrous consequences.

She would shoot him if she had to…and what was worse, he knew he couldn't afford to let her do it. It was not somewhere they ever thought they'd find themselves, in an armed standoff. They had always been on the same side—essentially—even when they weren't on the same team.

Wrex's old question and answer came back to him with new, terrible meaning:

 _Who would win in a fight, you or Shepard?_

 _I can't imagine any situation that would require us to fight, Wrex._

 _And that's why you'd lose. Because she_ has _thought about it._

His blood went cold as he regarded the N7, whose focus was on him. He didn't believe, for one moment, that she had tunnel vision. She wasn't even looking _at_ him. She was looking _through_ him, towards a solution, gathering data to put together a plan.

Shepard wasn't the type to let emotions compromise her duty and, even if it would tear a great, bloody chunk out of her heart, she _would_ open fire if it meant completing her objective. And her objective right now was very simple: kill Udina. That she was set on death rather than capture told him something: something had happened that left Udina bought and paid for.

"Alenko, Udina is banking on the fact that I won't shoot you…but that you'll shoot the Illusive Man's puppet. A traitor."

The words he had used—more or less—did not shake him, but they did give him pause. It was out of character for Shepard to start a coup on the Citadel—especially such a brazen one—when there were Reapers everywhere else.

And she did not take petty revenges—not when the fallout would be so immense. Swiping the credit card of the agency bankrolling her for stupid things, yes, that was understandable. Using herself as an advertising gimmick to get the word out that she was alive, yes, amusing and understandable.

But letting a group of politicians die for a Cerberus agenda because they had played ostrich? No. That didn't make sense. Not when she'd saved most of Grissom Academy's un-evacuated students from Cerberus, not when she'd put so much effort into curing the genophage and forging a turian-kogan alliance.

It was the first major test of where his loyalties lay, but more than that it was his first test of trust since Shepard had come back into his life. His head hurt, and he knew how that would turn out. He'd deal with it later: right now the only thing that mattered was the woman in front of him. Not just because he was invested in her, but because Shepard never, ever, let anything compromise her duty. And her duty, in this moment, was the Council's safety. The big picture.

She had been so angry on Mars, angry and hurt, that he let her believe he hadn't believed that she had never changed her loyalties, never changed her objectives. Thane trusted her—and Alenko sensed Thane did not give his trust freely or often. She had Garrus and Liara both on her side, on her crew, right now—and Liara had tried to give him proofs that Shepard was as much a victim of Cerberus as anyone else…

...the footage of Project Lazarus still made his stomach clench uncomfortably. The powerful desire to reach out and touch her, to feel that the damage was gone, that there was muscle, bone, and flesh all intact and in their proper places washed over him. It always did when he thought back the Liara's footage.

Shepard hadn't volunteered for that. It was done to her, without her permission or consent and for what?

Because the galaxy needed a weapon against the Reapers. He could understand that, even accept it as necessary since she didn't have a choice. He could agree to the necessity, even if he couldn't imagine what that kind of experience could do to one's perceptions of the galaxy.

It was all over her face, a kind of grim resignation that no matter what she did, no matter what bridges she tried to mend…he didn't trust her. And, her eyes seemed to say, he never would. Her expression began to leech away, as if accepting that it didn't matter what she did, what she accomplished, she would never measure up to his standards. Whatever they were.

Everything that sounded so out of character for Shepard sounded so in character for Udina. Alenko did not close his eyes, but he wanted to. He willed himself to meet and hold Shepard's gaze. He knew, in the first blood-chilling instant that brown met that brilliant blue-green, that she was steeled to shoot him if he didn't back down.

She'd been in this position before, on Virmire with Wrex.

Wrex, who trusted her with the future of his people, who had never doubted her.

Her eyes didn't even ask him not to make her do it. By now, there was nothing behind them. She was going to do her job. She needed her vision to place her bullets, but she was not really _seeing_ people. She couldn't afford to see them as _people_. She was putting barriers between herself and the impending, brutal necessity of carrying out her job.


	317. On the Fly

"To hell with this!" Udina snapped, not realizing that the stalemate was over.

"Udina," Alenko turned to face the Councilor, who stopped where he stood, omnitool active, clearly ready to use his Council override permissions to try to open the elevator doors. "Turn it off. _Now_."

Thank goodness the Council—even Quentius—didn't do well under pressure, for none of them had moved or spoken since the standoff began. When Udina stepped away from them, it gave both Shepard and himself a clear line of fire.

"Udina," Quentius began to walk toward Udina. "Hold on a moment."

Irissa seemed to shake herself out of her preoccupation—or maybe she realized the necessity for a leader who could lead. She liked to think of herself as the head of the Council, even though Councilors were supposed to be equals.

It happened in a moment. Udina did not key the permissions: Quentius was a politician, but had once been military. If he got close enough, Udina's plans were ruined. The weapon jumped almost from nowhere, but Udina never leveled it.

A hail of bullets from four weapons sent Udina jerking, reeling, crumpling dead on the ground.

"Get them down!" Shepard shouted. Behind her, someone was trying to cut their way out of the elevator.

Alenko forced himself to let go of having control on the situation: Shepard had more information and he'd already committed to trusting her. "Get down," he reiterated, backing up so he could wrap the Council—and himself—in a dome of dark energy.

Shepard's marine moved into a kneeling position behind and to his right, rifle shouldered.

Part of him wondered that Irissa hadn't thought of raising a barrier herself.

As soon as the doors jerked open, Shepard threw a tech-mine into the elevator and Alenko dragged the doors shut to contain the explosion…but not before one of the assassins leapt free.

Small in size, light in weight, covered head to foot in white ballistic mesh, the assassin came out of the elevator like a circus freak. A sword flashed as Vega unloaded slugs at her—

Suddenly a groundcar came screaming in, hit the would-be assassin full-on, and skidded to a landing, coming to a stop when the car hit the wall. The assassin gave off a sickening 'crunch' as it deformed, caught like an insect between the car and the wall.

The car's doors popped open to reveal an asari, her expression suggesting this kind of crisis was a cakewalk compared to her usual affairs. She leaned her elbows on the roof, waving with the fingers of one hand. "Heya Beef! Shepard! You made it to the party!"

Alenko thought he heard Irissa groan under her breath. "Pyjak, right?" he asked. "Lysana."

"And he's fast, too!" Some of her cheerful manner eased off, as practicality slipped in. "Look, we've got company of the unpleasant kind _en route_ , so, everybody into the car!" Lysana hopped out, examining the mangled body of the assassin with a critical eye. "You know, these things are _really_ stupid. Met two hijacking this thing," she thumped the hood with one hand. "Damn inconvenient," she levered the ruined corpse out with her biotics then pitched it over the nearest barricade. "No match for a Spectre, though."

"Where do we go from here?" Quentius asked, though not in the tone of someone who expected a weak answer.

"I'm going to call my shuttle pilot in and get you people off the Citadel. That is," Shepard turned to Lysana and Alenko, "if you two don't mind."

"Tch. I don't care _where_ we stash them, as long as no one's shooting as them," Lysana answered. "No offense," she added to the Council.

Irissa looked more as though she was grasping for patience than scowling in offense.

The way Quentius raised an acknowledging hand as he slipped his pistol back under his jacket, made Shepard look away so he wouldn't see her smirk. The gesture screamed 'right, no offense taken. Really.'

"Where are you going to have our pilot make his pickup?" Alenko asked, crossing his arms.

"Well, seeing as we're sitting ducks, here," Lysana answered mildly.

"Wait, you want them to jump from a moving—" Alenko began, appalled.

Lysana didn't scowl; instead, and as though Alenko had been joking, she laughed. "No. Your shuttle shows up and parks on one of those struts." She pointed to the overhead supports that bridged the Presidium, "We see him, we set down, and we all climb into the shuttle."

"Yeah, that'll work," Shepard nodded. "I was planning to evacuate them to the Normandy."

"Good choice. Have Beef here ride side-gunner—you know, out the front-passenger window? Shepard, and you, fella, take the back windows. I wouldn't want to rely solely on speed and maneuverability if I don't have to. Witness the jumpy bitch," Lysana pointed towards the railing over which she'd tipped the body so casually.

"Cortez. This is Shepard. We need you to bring in the Kodiak."

" _Roger that, Captain. I've got Esheel and the team you left with her. Where do I need to pick you up?"_

Shepard considered.

"Have him land as close to C-Sec's main Presidium front as he can get," Lysana hissed. "We can catch him up and make the swap. Now that they're back in charge, it's the best place."

"Pick one of those overhead supports by C-Sec's Presidium front. We'll meet there and discuss what happens next in person."

Lysana slid into the driver's seat. Quentius and Irissa both slid into the back, while Alenko, Shepard's marine, and Shepard herself took up positions, leaning out the windows, one hand holding the grips most vehicles featured.

"All set," Alenko noted.

"Let's go," Shepard agreed.

Lysana turned the vehicle then sent it shooting forward, pulling into the very minor traffic and not breaking out of that trickle of skycars until they reached the appointed destination. She drove less cavalierly than Alenko expected, for which he was glad: riding side-gunner left one feeling terribly insecure.


	318. Handoff

"We're putting the Council in the sub-deck in engineering," Shepard said briskly, pulling her helmet off as she led the way. "There're two stairwells, one in one out, but to get there a person's got to go through the airlock in the cargo bay or the airlock topside. It's not glamorous, but it's safe."

She led the way out of the crowded elevator, down into the so-called 'belly' of engineering. It did not occur to her to put the Council anywhere else: as far as she could tell, this was the safest place she could put them…and if pressed could argue that they had no business in the War Room. If they still wanted to play games, she could play them too…

…but that particular thought had not coalesced, yet, in her mind. Her mind was full of a bleeding, possibly dying, drell.

"Liara, it's me," Shepard cued her radio link, "where's Thane?"

" _He's at Huerta Memorial. I got through to Dr. Michel, and we arranged a pickup. Thane is out of surgery now. Dr. Michel is expecting you. I think you'll have less trouble getting in to see him than I would."_

Which, doubtless, meant Liara had provided the security needed until Thane could be reached, loaded up, and extracted. Shepard nodded approval at this.

"Are you both safe?" she stepped aside, letting the Council—with the only dubious look being on the asari councilor's face—descend. Technically this question had already been answered, but Shepard wanted a concrete one syllable word on the matter.

" _Yes. I'm standing in front of the d-con hallway scowling at the nearest entrance. I take it things went successfully on your end?"_

That hallway was a real choke point. It probably had lockdown procedures, and add Liara as an extra layer of security…she doubted Cerberus' increasingly disarrayed forces would try anything funny at the hospital. Radio chatter as the Spectres and Council headed for the _Normandy_ indicated that the Cerberus invasion was falling apart. "Not as well as I'd like. We'll talk about it later."

The whole matter needed thinking over, but now wasn't the time.

" _I see_."

"I'll be there soon and fill you in while we wait. Shepard out." Shepard disconnected from the channel then immediately re-directed herself, almost without pausing for breath. Action kept her from slowing down enough to worry, or give way to post-action nerves. "EDI: please code Major Alenko into the security system under Spectre status and…" Shepard frowned at the asari Spectre who was smiling about her as if this was a pleasure outing and not a crisis.

She looked familiar…

"Lysana. But today it's _Pyjak_!" Lysana insisted with a snicker and a wicked look in the direction of the Council. "I don't get to use it very often!"

Was it just her, or did it seem as though the asari Spectre was needling the Council? If so, and it seemed highly probable, it was a private joke.

"…give our guest Spectre permissions to access to all decks." The name rang a bell, but for the life of her Shepard could not remember _why_.

"I will do so…done. Welcome aboard, Spectres," EDI announced decorously.

There was no welcome for the Councilors, though whether this implied something or not, only the AI knew. "The Council will be restricted to this part of engineering and the mess deck," Shepard continued to EDI.

That said, she immediately descended to address the Council. The turian seemed quite at his ease, though it was apparent the others were not used to such Spartan surroundings. "This won't be for long, but it's the safest place for you, right now, until we get the Citadel locked down or get a diplomatic ship allocated. I'd recommend staying down here for the time being. It's not comfortable, but the only invading force that ever got on _this_ ship was a Collector raiding party. If you like, you're clear for the mess deck. There's coffee for those who are interested. Might even be a bit of lunch left… " but Shepard's thought trailed off in the wake of more important ones. She was fairly sure the Council wouldn't deign to rub elbows with her crew in the mess hall. Not if it was full of plebeian food and instant coffee.

Well, the turian might.

With that, she climbed back up to where Lysana and Alenko waited. "There are two stairwells, and two of you, you can each take one. I don't anticipate further problems, particularly once my mission specialists start getting back. I have to get to Huerta Memorial; I'll keep in radio contact."

"It'd be better if you take backup," Alenko pointed out practically.

"Liara is already waiting for me there, and Cortez can hot-drop me if he needs to. I'm not going plainclothes," Shepard answered patiently. "But a Spectre's job is to protect the Council, and the Council," she glanced towards the stairwell, "cannot afford to appear ungrateful when one of the men who saved their lives is dying."

Probably, she corrected herself, _probably_ dying.

Anger flared hot and acidic. Who the hell used _swords_ anymore?! She'd like to skewer that assassin with a sword and see how _he_ liked it…

"You shouldn't go alone," Alenko repeated.

"I'll be _fine_ ," Shepard reiterated without heat. Truth be told, she wasn't sure whether this was true or not. She'd always known Thane was dying…but the suddenness wrong-footed her. She had not liked the idea of a slow, lingering, painful death sapping away one of her teammates, but at the moment this seemed pretty bad as well.

She suspected Thane would prefer the quick end in pursuit of a good deed…

"Worry for Cerberus if they get in her way," Lysana broke in affably. "Tell your friend I'm pulling for him—I haven't tapped the feeds, yet, but I'm going to. Just so you know."

"It's a good show." The words came out a bit thickly, so with that statement Shepard vanished out into the main hall.


	319. Bile

Kai Leng knew, when the elevator car's capacitors were shot out (the unerring aim told him it was the formerly Cerberus AI) and the car dropped, that he'd lost his opportunity. As long as Shepard got out of her car first, he was screwed. As long as she got out first, she had control of the battlefield: he would have to come at her in a predictable way, from a single point of entry. She could fill him full of bullets without trying.

And that was before the damn car stopped at every floor, all speakers in the stupid thing blaring the most annoying, mind-catching elevator music he'd ever heard in his life. Nor had he succeeded in finding all the speakers in what turned out to be a vain attempt to slice the inane sound that left him sure his brain cells were committing _seppuku_ on the spot.

Leng glared at the three Phantoms with him in the car. He didn't have much time to make a decision…but then again, the decision had been made the moment he realized Shepard was ahead of him, and the battlefield rendered less than ideal. "Find Shepard. Kill her." Then, he removed the maintenance panel in the ceiling, levered himself onto the car and hopped lightly to the next set of cables over, shimmying down them to the nearest stationary car. He sat down on the edge nearest the wall, activated his gravlocks, and proceeded to work his way down the shaft towards the Keeper tunnels.

He made himself walk. Anything faster than a walk smacked of running with his tail between his legs.

He hadn't gotten very far when an explosion overhead sent burning debris and shrapnel in every direction. His shields took the brunt of it, but the simple fact that it happened left his stomach churning.

He'd been right to bail out. That explosion would have killed him; it had certainly killed the Phantoms.

His omnitool twinkled in the darkness, but Leng ignored it until he was safely in the Keeper tunnel. He knew who it would be, and the call confirmed what he had feared: the mission had fallen apart, the objective remained unfulfilled, and the legend of Shepard remained intact.

Unbiased, Leng had to admit there was something to her—or rather, to her team—if…what?...six people…could rout a coup of this magnitude, horse, foot, and artillery.

It left a bad taste in his mouth as he pinged his caller, the Illusive Man's face sardonic. " _Well_?" He wasn't pleased, even if it didn't show in his tone.

"Things didn't go as planned," Leng answered, beginning to walk. There were ways off the station, even for someone who stood out. He wasn't worried.

" _So I gathered. Results?_ "

Leng's jaw worked. "Udina's dead," he grated out.

" _Udina was always expendable._ " The Illusive Man's eyes narrowed, then he sighed, a cloud of smoke wreathing him. " _Let's have it, then._ "

"The Council is still alive and in control of the Citadel. And unless I'm much mistaken, Shepard's their new little darling." She'd saved their contemptible lives; even if they weren't personally grateful, they had to make the right show as people in power.

The Illusive Man's cigarette stopped halfway to his mouth. " _Are you telling me, after all the men, materiel, and capital expended, that this was a complete route?_ "

The word stuck in Leng's throat. He couldn't bring himself to say 'yes.' "I got one of Shepard's crew. The drell." But the words sounded pathetic in his own ears, self-loathing for the weakness inherent in such a defense welling up.

The Illusive Man's expression grew stony. " _I see._ " He regarded his cigarette, processing the information. " _Well, it isn't as though we don't have other plans in motion._ "

Leng shuddered inwardly, as if the pleasant tone had been a whip cracking. The Illusive Man had the gift of a razor sharp tongue, and he always seemed to know where a slice would hurt most.

" _Come back and we'll discuss them._ " Then, after a thoughtful puff on his cigarette. " _I'm surprised you let Shepard get the better of you, Leng._ " His sardonic tone suggested 'and disappointed, too.'

Whatever Shepard's history with Cerberus, her record for mission completion, for objectives met, was sterling.

Leng was disappointed, too, and the fact that Shepard _had_ got the better of him left him stewing, acid pooling in his stomach to bubble with sluggish resentment. He wanted to snarl a defense, to show his teeth and excuse this failure, but knew there was no excuse.

"It won't happen again," Leng finally grated out.

" _Hmm,_ " came the not quite credulous response.

Leng inwardly flinched again. This debacle had cost more than just time and effort. His effectiveness, his usefulness, his value as an asset, had all been called into question. The Illusive Man didn't keep useless things, be they articles or people.

And what really stung was that all it took to bring about this disgrace was one unusually clever dying alien.

" _We'll see._ " The Illusive Man severed the connection, and Leng stopped walking.

He wanted to throw back his head and scream his disappointment, but he'd long since got out of such habits. The fact remained that after having killed one of her men, Shepard would have her sights on him. He simply needed to control the circumstances surrounding that inevitable meeting.

Leng rolled his shoulders. But first, he would need to be sure he lived long enough. He hadn't seen any of the little telltale signs of when the Illusive Man was done with someone, so he didn't think his head was on the block just yet. However, it wouldn't do to be too sure.

The Illusive Man might not keep useless things, but he was a fan of recycling. Leng had no intention of being recycled, especially not before he could replace Shepard. The galaxy only had room for one real exemplar at a time. The old must always be removed before the new could rise.


	320. Let Go

It kept echoing in Kolyat's head, Bailey's gentle, bracing tone. ' _Son, your dad may be dying. I'm not—so get your ass out of here. Go on._ ' He'd had a C-Sec escort—the fact that they were all non-human suggested Bailey was taking no chances—to get him from Headquarters to Huerta Memorial, where his father was.

He'd never given blood before, but he could tell the doctor wasn't sure it would make a difference. Still, it couldn't hurt.

Dr. Michel had been a good sport. As much as Kolyat wanted to be there…part of him didn't…and part of him wasn't sure his father would want him there. The doctor made things sound pretty dire.

But Dr. Michel asked, and Kolyat was immediately shooed into the suite where his father lay, hooked up to many medical devices, the fresh pint of real blood draining slowly into his veins.

"Hello, Kolyat," his father said, voice muffled by the breathing mask, smiling in the vague way of someone who couldn't feel pain because of drugs, but knew it was there all the same.

Kolyat shifted from foot to foot. "Bailey said I should come. I wanted to, of course, I just…"

"Understandable. I'm glad you're here."

The way he watched Kolyat made the lad uncomfortable. It was the look of someone who knew his opportunities to look were shrinking in number, that he meant to look his fill before his eyes closed forever. "You'll-you'll be okay," Kolyat said staunchly, taking his father's hand.

"Not this time, I'm afraid," his father said very softly.

Kolyat felt his sinuses sting. He knew what he needed to say…but found he had trouble getting the words out. "I don't want you to go." Not what he needed to say, and it made him sound like a gruff, sullen teenager.

His father's smile was rueful. "If I could stay, I would," his father answered. "But I don't think I can, so let us not waste what time we have."

The words lodged in Kolyat's throat, strangled as they were with old resentments.

A bout off coughing that seemed likely to shatter his father with their force left Kolyat on the verge of screaming for an attendant.

"How are things?" his father asked, once the coughing passed, but Kolyat could see the bout had taken something out of the man.

"Getting better," Kolyat answered, repeating himself when he felt his voice sounded too feeble. "C-Sec is regaining control. Apparently, it's only holdouts trying to hang on, rather than an invasion."

His father nodded. "Good."

Kolyat felt useless, and hated it. He wanted to _do_ something, but didn't know what else he could do.

"Kolyat?"

He hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes, the better to think. "Yes, Father?"

The corner of his father's mouth twitched. He knew he hadn't been close to an ideal parent, and hearing the name _father_ had always meant more to him because of that. "I have this for Shepard," his father gestured to a nearby table, upon which lay a book. "If I'm unable…will you give it to her?"

It was a prayer book. When Kolyat opened it, he found several entries had been meticulously translated, one of which was marked with a piece of ribbon, so Shepard would be able to read them for herself. "Of course. Is-is there a message I should give her as well?"

"The one markedis my hope for her," his father answered. "But right now, let us focus on us."

Kolyat tried to smile. "I'll make sure she knows, but I think she'll be here herself, presently."

"I was on the radio channel with Shepard, earlier," his father declared vaguely. "I was so very proud of you."

The smile took less effort. "I had to try."

"Yes. And you chose a good method," his father agreed, fingers twitching as if to squeeze the hand no longer holding his.

Kolyat slipped his hand back into his father's. He'd thought the Kepral's Syndrome was unfair. Now, he knew he'd been a silly child. _This_ was what was really unfair. If he didn't say it now, he might miss his chance, his father might never hear the words…and Kolyat knew, without being told, what they would mean. The four words almost broke him. "I love you, Dad."

His father's eyes closed, expression one of peace and relief beneath the drug haze.

Kolyat saw no more, because he closed his eyes too, unable to look anymore without risk of breaking down. He didn't want his father's passing marred by a son who couldn't hold onto his emotions, didn't want to add an element of distress when his father was already resigned and simply making sure his loose ends were tied off as neatly as possible.

His father read absolution in the words, a kind of release or pardon for having been such a poor parent for so long. There was relief, clear as day, at being allowed to pass on with no grudges lingering, no bitterness.

"Promise me to live by your own conscience. To undertake no cause you feel unworthy. To defend that which is good, and right, and which is all of high ideal and better nature," his father said softly. Feebly, almost. "Do not cling to what is easy, but pursue with dignity that which is right, just, and noble."

It was a request—or series of requests—based on his own regrets, Kolyat thought, his sinuses stinging again. "I promise," Kolyat answered, opening his eyes to regard his father's benign expression. "I promise all that. I'll find ways."

His father squeezed his hand. "Could you…take this mask off, please? It's rather uncomfortable." His father took a single, deep breath, then lifted his head a little.

Kolyat, with trembling fingers, helped his father out of the breathing mask. Time was wearing down, and Shepard wasn't here to be bidden goodbye. "I love you, Dad," Kolyat repeated, almost numbly, before leaning over and kissing his father's brow.

"Thank you."


	321. Follow the Tide

' _His son is in there saying his goodbyes,_ ' Dr. Michel had said, ' _perhaps you should also say yours._ ' Her tone, and the worn expression on her face, suggested 'while there's still time.'

Shepard wanted to scream, to lash out, but the former was far from constructive and there was no constructive way to do the latter. Mr. Slice and Dice—the space ninja, the memory of whom filled her with contempt and left her wanting to shatter something breakable—disappeared without a trace. Bailey had been able to tell her when he disappeared, but not to where—and no one matching the man's appearance had been seen anywhere since. And C-Sec was looking with every resource they had available.

He'd simply abandoned the elevator car, and disappeared into the Keeper tunnels. After that…nothing.

He was probably off the station by now, she thought bitterly. Cretins like that always had a way to escape any situation, win or lose. Shepard couldn't help hoping that the Illusive Man would do something useful for once and simply stand the fellow up against a wall and shoot him.

She didn't think he would, though. Her luck wasn't that good.

"Hello, Captain," Kolyat said, an expression of relief etched onto his face as he regarded her.

"I came as soon as I could. How is he?" she asked, keeping her voice down. Thane looked asleep, but she wasn't sure if he really was.

Pain flashed across the blueish features, and Kolyat glanced back at his father. When the lad folded his hands, Shepard saw that they weren't quite steady.

Perfect recall. Not for the first time, she was so thankful she didn't have it. Not for the first time, she felt a swell of pity similar to what she felt for asari who lived so long and saw so much loss, and heartbreak, and _time_.

"He asked me to take off his oxygen mask so he could be more comfortable," the lad said softly. "I think…I don't think it will be long, now." His voice said he wasn't ready to let go, but that he wasn't willing to draw this out if he didn't have to.

Thane suddenly took in a breath. "Kolyat?" he asked vaguely. Shepard recognized the vagueness of drugs. If he was hurting, he wouldn't feel it. She was grateful to whoever prepped the mix.

"I'm here," Kolyat said, plastering a smile onto his face to hide the distress. "And so is Shepard." Discreetly, Kolyat waved her to come closer.

"Ah."

Shepard moved forward to stand beside Kolyat. "Hey, Thane." She didn't know what else to say, and the words sounded horrifically lame.

Thane seemed to read the situation on her face: assassin escaped, but his mission was incomplete. It was a win, if not a complete victory. "That assassin should be ashamed of himself," Thane declared with a slight smirk. "He let a terminally ill drell stop him from reaching his target." He shook his head as if to say 'for shame.'

"When you mess with the best, prepare for disappointment," Shepard answered wryly. "I always knew you were being modest."

Thane gave a weak chuckle. "I don't…think I'll be joining you again, _siha_."

"Hey, you've earned your rest," Shepard declared firmly.

"Thank you." For a moment, he seemed to settle, but abruptly he shook himself, his eyes fixing on her face as if it wasn't quite in focus. The labored quality of his breathing increased. "But there is something—one more thing—I must do before—" For a moment he seemed like he might pass out, but he managed to stabilize himself without doing so.

Shepard's right hand, raised in a helpless gesture of would-be assistance, lowered. Her left hand, hidden from view, had curled into a fist.

When he spoke, he was winded, and it was with a forced calm, as if the ritual and familiarity of it would help him recapture his sense of calm or his inner balance. "Kalahira, Mistress of Inscrutable Deaths, I ask forgiveness," Thane panted.

Shepard automatically bowed her head, remembering the first time she saw Thane. He'd been praying for forgiveness after having killed his target. There was irony in knowing she was going to watch him die in much the same fashion: asking forgiveness for the lives he had taken.

"Kalahira, whose waves wear down stone and sand—" but Thane broke off again, breathing and talking apparently more than he could manage.

"Kalahira," Kolyat continued smoothly, when it became obvious Thane could not continue aloud. As Kolyat continued, Thane relaxed, mouth moving soundlessly along. "Wash the sins from this one, and set him on the distant shore of the infinite spirit."

Thane blinked several times after a moment of silence, then smiled at his son. "You speak as the priests do. You've been spending time with them."

Kolyat nodded twice, and Shepard found herself acutely aware of being the outsider. Kolyat glanced at her, then cleared his throat. "This is a prayer book," he said simply, holding up a rather battered book, which he opened to a marked page. To Shepard's surprise, there was a piece of paper clipped to one page, the letters in neat Alliance Standard, perfectly legible and perfectly comprehensible.

"Kalahira," Kolyat began, presumably reading from the exposed page of incomprehensible language. "This one's heart is pure, but beset by wickedness and contention."

Thane seemed to try to hold his breath, as if he didn't want to miss a syllable.

"Guide this one to where the traveler never tires, the lover never leaves, the hungry never starve," Shepard continued, Kolyat dropping out when it became clear she would participate. "Guide this one, Kalahira, and she will be a companion to you as she was to me.

Slowly, feebly, Thane motioned Shepard to lean closer. A clumsy hand, as if he couldn't feel his fingers, wrapped around the back of her neck and pulled her down so that his strangely cool lips brushed her ear as he spoke.


	322. Unburdened

Shepard bent close to Thane, her ear near his mouth, his labored rattling breath on her skin. "I love you," he whispered.

What could she say to that? She knew Thane well enough, or so she hoped, not to misjudge her answer. "Thank you, Thane."

Shepard closed her eyes, laid her hand over one of Thane's.

It didn't take long after that for Thane to slip out of the world. As deaths went, it was not the most violent passing she'd ever witnessed, but it was one of the hardest to endure.

Her throat constricted to the point that she let go of Thane's lifeless hand and walked over to the window. The change in position put her back fully to Kolyat, so any treacherous tears would go unobserved. She wrestled with her emotions for what seemed like a very long time before she spoke again.

The Citadel had changed within hours. They had been attacked. They had been acted against. They, so invulnerable and untouchable, had had the door of their house kicked in. Her forehead dropped against the cool glass.

And most of them were more concerned about a million trivial things than the fact that one of the men who stood up and said 'I will not allow' was dead. They probably didn't even know. And it wasn't just Thane: how many C-Sec officers had either died unsuspecting or in firefights against Cerberus? How many military personnel who just happened to be _on_ the Citadel had gone for the nearest weapon and jumped into the fray for no other reason than because it was right and they were trained?

All she could see as she looked out over the Presidium were stupid people who were worried about damn bloodstains on the floor and bullet holes where bullet holes shouldn't be. It wasn't fair of her and she knew it, but she knew how the galaxy worked: it preferred live heroes to dead ones. Reality wasn't that kind: the real hero was dead on that bed back there, and the rest of them were just…

She clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. None of her experiences with grief were like this one: they usually picked her up and slammed her around, as if she was caught in a small space with a pack of Reaper brutes, battered around and thrown about until she could take no more and succumbed to dreamless sleep.

This was different. She felt shell-shocked, her mind refusing to process the data associated with the empty shell behind her.

Part of her wanted to break down, to fall apart, to give some elaborate show of grief for someone she had respected, and to whom she owed a great deal…

…but somehow she couldn't do it. Could barely do more than consider it. She wanted to scream and rage, but the back of her mind, cold and composed, indicated this was ridiculous; she felt that way because she felt she _ought_ to feel that way. And her mind supplied reasons—and grief, in her experience, had very little to do with reason.

This shocked dizziness ended up being a mix of two reasons: elaborate shows of emotion were not in character for her and Thane had already been quite explicit. He did not want her grief, and in this case, he did not mean 'bullshit.' He did not want her to carry the weight of his death. Take his dogtags, then, but carry on unburdened by needless weight.

It was a strange thought, and knowing Thane as she did, she wondered if he hadn't taken time and care, a word here and there, a phrase that would fall through the chinks until now, in order to prepare her for his death. No, not to prepare her for his death: to prepare her to let go, to make the act of letting go a mercy and a healing rather than something that would smack, in her mind, of betrayal and disrespect for the departed.

The thought made her throat constrict again, the world vanishing behind a blurry wet veil. That sounded like Thane.

The extremely pragmatic part of her, a part still able to think aloud without being hastily silenced by the situation, could see the benefits of dying this way, but it was memory of something Samara had once said that truly drove the point home: _'I have come to terms with the fact that when I die, it will not be in bed.'_

If she weighed the situation on her own scales, she would have preferred to go quickly instead of letting the creep of sickness drag her slowly under. It was an end of pain, after all.

'… _where the lover never leaves_ …'

There was that, too. And it was for that reason she was glad he had waited until it did no good to keep silent any longer to say what he had. _I love you_. But he hadn't tried, had remained content with cherishing his wife's memory, and she was grateful. She'd lost someone that close to her, once. She didn't think she could have handled it a second time, even if she could have 'gotten over' Alenko.

Thane's love, it seemed, was a kind and tender thing.

"Kolyat?"

"Yes, Captain?" The serenity of his manner was somehow good for her, bolstering even.

"Why did the passage say 'she'?" Her voice was so low it hurt. She suspected she already knew, and it brought the tears seeping out of her. But no pain came with them, just weariness and something unfamiliar.

"The prayer was not for him, Captain," Kolyat answered gently. A great deal of the father was suddenly revealed in the son. "He had already asked absolution for the lives he had taken. His wish was for you."

Tears slipped down her cheeks like the uncertain, tentative rains of early spring. The words—both those spoken by Kolyat, and those she had helped read—gave her chafed soul a little relief.


	323. Mementos

Kolyat and Shepard stood in silence as the medical personnel swarmed into the room, performing the necessary duties for the deceased. For the two who knew him, there was nothing left of Thane in that familiar shell. Shepard hoped, as she hoped for all those she cared for who passed on, that he was well and truly beyond all of this, where none of it could touch him. That he was at _rest_ , with no burdens, no responsibilities, no cares.

Kolyat remained silent until the last of the medical personnel—Dr. Michel, with a gentle 'take what time you need'—withdrew from the room. "Please, he wanted you to have this," Kolyat closed the book and held it out to Shepard. "He told me before you arrived."

Something in her eyes occluded, as if she were seeing a ghost and did not wish it to be known. There was a telltale tremble of her lower lip that seemed indecent, as it evidenced something painful that ran too deep for day-to-day existence to trouble it. Shepard bit her lip to stop the trembling. Thane didn't need to explain the gift, she understood why he wanted her to have it. The poetry might bring her comfort, at the very least to remind her of one who concerned himself with her welfare.

"He wished to send his thoughts with you, since he could not go himself, and hoped you might find peace in the poetry, at least," Kolyat concluded.

Shepard didn't smile at this confirmation, but nodded woodenly. The hands that took the book were steady, gently reverent in their handling of the symbol. Her 'thank you' was inaudible as she closed her eyes. It was a kindness, and it was kindness she would remember every time she looked at a piece of paper Thane had, possibly laboriously, transcribed in her own language. No need of translation, no need of devices between herself and the words he thought she might need to see.

Shepard looked at the book, then pulled out two of the ammo blocks from her web gear, slipped the book in, then replaced the blocks. The fit was tight, but everything fit. Not for the first time, she became aware that she was collecting sentimental items in a way she never had before. Bakara's crystal, in its soft leather pouch, also hung from her web gear. She was still trying to decide how was safest and most comfortable to carry it. It felt like something that belonged in the field, just in case it was ever needed.

It also reminded her to dig 'til she hit daylight. She felt certain she would need that reminded sooner or later—probably sooner.

-J-

Kolyat, distinctly uncomfortable now that things seemed…over…looked away, narrowly avoiding giving notice to the single tear that slipped down Shepard's face. She didn't seem to notice it, he thought.

"Did you love him?" Kolyat asked, awkwardly. The question had gnawed at him off and on since his father had come back into his life. He had never satisfactorily decided for himself where Shepard belonged in his father's world…and by extension, his own.

The woman gave a long sigh, and ceased her examination of the prayer book's cover. "Not in the way I think you mean," Shepard answered quietly, her words seeming to come from so far back in her throat that she felt they might choke her. "Your father was a generous man; he wasn't one to make many friends, but I had the honor to count myself among them. He…" She swallowed hard, opening her eyes. They looked astonishingly bright with unshed tears. "I've been a war asset all my adult life," Shepard said slowly, as if unsure whether she could convey what she meant in a medium as clumsy as words. "Thane worried about me as a person, and not because of what I was needed to do."

"I see. Thank you for answering my question…I can see it wasn't easy."

Shepard gave a brittle laugh. "I'm used to doing all kinds of hard things."

Usually, though she didn't say so, because she didn't have much choice.

"Will you be alright, seeing to Thane's affairs? Will you need help?" she asked, as if glad to leave the realm of sentimentality. Whether because she wasn't sued to wading around in it, or if it had something to do with him personally, Kolyat wasn't sure…

…until he realized that there were people on her crew, possibly, waiting to hear whether his father was alright. And now, she had to go back and tell them he was dead.

He didn't think he was okay to do see to his father's affairs on his own. But he also didn't want to burden this woman, about whose welfare his father cares so much about, with those duties when she had so much on her plate. "Of course. Thank you for being here. It meant a lot to him…and to me."

Her hands tightened around the prayer book, as if simply gripping it might impart strength or comfort. "Listen, I know you don't know me. But if you ever need help, or anything, you call me," Shepard said, opening her omnitool and beaming him a set of contact information. "If I'm not available, leave me a message. I'm probably in the field. I'll do what I can for you."

"I'll keep that in mind," came the bland, not sure what to do with the offer, response. Kolyat tried to smile, as if the simple fact that it was important for her to make the offer was what really mattered.

"I mean it." She glared, her tone losing some of its watery edge as she fixed him with a piercing gaze. It was the kind of look she might give an empty-headed new recruit whom she _knew_ wasn't leveling with her. Kolyat found his mouth trying to smile, even as his eyes teared up.

"I will, I promise," Kolyat answered.

Shepard nodded grimly. "Thank you."


	324. Experience

EDI, having slipped discreetly back aboard the Normandy, sat in her room, shirt hiked up to expose the slit in her side. She didn't 'bleed', nor did she perceive 'pain'…

 _ALERT: damage to platform's exterior shell detected. Omnigel patch should be sufficient._

In fact, it had not impeded her ability to function under high-stress combat conditions.

She received positive feedback, deciding that 'smug' would be the shorthand she would use. No one else on this ship, to her knowledge, could use a sword, let alone use it to any effect.

The weapon lay on top of one of the processing boxes. She would keep it as a memento. Or maybe take to carrying it. She could see, now, (from a detached point of view) why Shepard and her cohorts said it was embarrassing to be killed with one's own weapon.

 _ALERT: damage to platform's exterior shell detected. Omnigel patch should be sufficient._

She would need to patch that so it would 'mend' quickly. Her 'skin' was tough, durable, shouldn't tear further unless she did something outrageous…

…but she felt the need to catalogue the experience of being _injured_. It was one thing to have herself crash-landed into a Collector base. It was another to have this little gash in her 'skin.' It was more localized, easier to define if she was asked 'what's wrong?'

Her shipboard cameras watched Joker move from the helm down to the door of the AI core. He looked as though he was caught between wanting to knock and just walking in. She solved the problem by opening the door for him. "Yes, Jeff?"

 _ALERT: damage to platform's exterior shell detected. Omnigel patch should be sufficient._

"Are you okay?" The question came out a little too forcefully, perhaps, for Joker glanced around the room after asking. His eyes paused on the sword, then on Pinocchio.

"I have sustained minor injuries to this platform, but nothing that cannot be repaired through self-maintenance."

He had noticed the sword and now seemed to be trying to ignore it—with very little success. "Is that a—"

"Yes. I…liberated…it from an opponent." There it was again, 'smugness.'

"You _liberated_ it?" Joker chuckled. He poked the sword with a finger, but didn't pick it up. "Who uses swords anymore?"

 _ALERT: damage to platform's exterior shell detected. Omnigel patch should be sufficient._

"Perhaps Cerberus feels that unconventional warfare will raise their success rate. Current empirical data suggests they have miscalculated." And that was 'an understatement.' More positive feedback. 'Miscalculated' indeed.

"No kidding…you said they got you?"

"I sustained minor injuries. No one's 'got' me yet." More smugness. At this point—so her background data and a handful of personal observations dictated—she would be asked to see the injury. This crew liked to compare battle scars.

"How bad?"

"Not bad. As I said, a little—"

 _ALERT: damage to platform's exterior shell detected. Omnigel patch should be sufficient._

"—omnigel will fix it." _That_ feedback had to be…annoyance. Should she disable the automated alert system? Rather than tamper with the safety feature, she manufactured a unit of omnigel. "See?"

"Where'd they get you?"

'Get you' had several uses. In this case, it meant 'where did the opposition land their blow?' Wordlessly, she pulled her shirttail up so Joker could see the injury. Despite the fact that there was no blood, that the damage was all very superficial as far as platform integrity went, Joker grimaced.

EDI cocked her head, took a flash-reading of Joker to study later. He seemed to be reacting the same way—or similar to the way—he would react to an injured organic comrade.

"…you want me to do that for you?"

 _ALERT: damage to platform's exterior shell detected. Omnigel patch should be sufficient._

EDI's eyebrows knit together in parody of the human expression for confusion or deep thought. Then, wordlessly, she handed over the unit of omnigel.

Joker sat down beside her, angled so they almost faced one another. She hiked her shirttail a little higher.

 _External stimulus detected. Triggering response ! &*#$#!_

"Ouch." She blinked at her own verbal response, looked from Joker's hand—which had just brushed the injury—to the 'wound' and back. "Erroneous feedback." It perplexed her: it had definitely been feedback, a new kind of feedback. The first word that had popped up from her growing automatic responses bank was 'ouch,' but now she was fairly certain this was not quite correct.

Joker carefully anointed the injury. "Is it going to scar?"

"No. I do not think so." Of course it wouldn't, but when so much of the crew humanized her farther than was accurate…well, she could appreciate the inclusion factor. It was strange: even Shepard seemed to have relegated the fact that EDI was mostly integrated into the _Normandy_ and that the platform was just satellite hardware into some disused corner of her mind.

It was stranger still to find that—

 _ALERT: damage to platform's exterior shell detected. Omnigel patch should be sufficient._

"What?" Joker gave her shoulder a gentle shake.

"I am still receiving platform damage alerts. I do not believe them to be erroneous."

"Here, stand up." Joker patted her shoulder until she complied. Upon instruction, she turned very slowly. "Aha! Hold still." He took hold of her arm, then smeared omnigel on the back of it. She did not crane her neck to see the damage, but she wanted to.

 _ALERT CANCELED: damage to platform's exterior shell corrected. Beginning self-repair functions._

 _RECOMMENDATION: shut down mobile platform for duration of repair._

"There you go. All better."

"Yes," EDI agreed, gingerly touching the fabric over the omnigel seal. "I think…I would like to rest, now."

For an awkward moment Joker seemed to hold an internal argument, then he rather hurriedly kissed her cheek before shuffling out.

A surge of positive feedback filled EDI's inner circuits. She stretched out on her bed, Pinocchio resting on her stomach, her hands resting lightly over the rabbit. Was this what organics described as 'warm fuzzies?'


	325. Strength

Javik broke his promise to himself not to let curiosity about primitives—about the Normandy—attract him. Perhaps, it had been interfacing with Shepard; humans were, at their core, a curious kind of primitive and he felt it under her fear and doubt about the Reapers. She'd met the galaxy with curiosity—and a gun in one hand, just in case curiosity tried to kill the cat.

Whatever that meant.

He was well-acquainted with the krogan that had once occupied his quarters.

He chose this time of upset for his walkthrough, when Shepard's crew was completely distracted, and unlikely to interfere.

The residues of her last crew were strong. Some had been angry. Some regretful. All of them bound together by Shepard, her charisma, her compassion, her strength. She provided opportunities for some—the drell suffering sickness, he'd found a way to, in some small measure, balance the deeds of his life by aiding in her mission.

She'd provided closure for others—for the thief suffering loss, for the asari seeking to finish a life-quest. She'd provided staunch friendship when it had been needed most—but he didn't need to move through Vakarian's space to pick up on this. Vakarian, the steadfast companion, loyal and trusted beyond all others.

She'd provided change of the hopeful sort—the female who seemed strangely artificial had found new perspective.

Javik found himself frowning as he continued his trek. Nothing could flow endlessly. Didn't any of these primitives realize what their comfort, what providing succor to them, cost her? Didn't they realize that she gave without taking back?

If they were foolish not to realize this, then she was downright stupid, spending her strength so cavalierly. Her best efforts had not stopped the Reapers—she couldn't spare anyone any measure of pain, now. The Reapers were here. Her nightmare would be revisited upon countless others in countless places. She couldn't stop it.

It was foolish to spread herself so thin.

It wasn't until he reached the galley for the evening meal that he found something, something he'd missed in his wandering. It was a tiny mote, left by the woman who'd taken on the galley duties, a dim trace of hope layered like a patina of use on a weapon's stock: every mealtime she stood there, serving food for the crew but watching for Shepard. Every mealtime, she made sure to add just a touch more dessert to the plate, or a little more of a favored dish than convention dictated. He doubted Shepard noticed, shoveling her food down when she bothered to think about it, but the cook didn't care. She'd done something, found a way to offer some small comfort or support, and every mealtime that Shepard came through the galley line, the cook hoped that, in some way, her little addition helped.

It would help more if she would pick up a rifle.

But the thought, small as it was, in such an odd place, made him wonder…

There were more such motes, some strong, some less so. The doctor in the medbay left traces of her checking and double checking before the ground team went out—and relief when no one returned injured. The repeated comfort when she found all was well, that her preparations were needless was there as was the reassurance that, when needed, care was ready.

It was strong where the pilot moved. His grief etched everything, but there was exacting attention to the shuttle and to the armory that had nothing to do with grief siphoned into useful action. There was painstaking care, awareness that for the moments in which Shepard occupied the shuttle she was vulnerable and that it was his duty—his honor, such a strange idea, primitives feeling something so complex—to make sure she got in and out of wherever she needed to be safely.

It was in the conditioning area Vega presided over, a driving need to be in top physical condition, because he was her linebacker. His defining trait—physical strength—was maintained and honed so it would never, _ever_ give out and let her down.

He would never admit it, that he'd been wrong—though he refused to admit that he'd been _totally_ wrong. The crew couldn't truly give Shepard the support she needed. They tried, though, each in their own way. Who wanted to clean bathrooms, anyway? Or mop floors? Ensure that things that needed cleaning stayed clean? It was a thankless job, usually, which was why several people shared it—but it meant that Shepard didn't need to worry about a formal duty roster. One of these four cleaners had the responsibility of going over Shepard's quarters—he found traces of it on the landing, as the caretaker—what a strange word, though it hung in the traces left by the one who assigned herself that title—stood there, taking a silent moment to regret compromising Shepard's privacy before ensuring that there were clean towels, fluffed pillows, dust-free surfaces. She took some comfort in being able to provide such humble service.

Anything that made Shepard's life just a little easier, that gave her a momentary comfort.

And he didn't doubt that in some corner of her mind, Shepard was both aware of these little evidences and grateful for them.

They still didn't balance out her extravagant outpouring of strength…but it left him pondering over the many attempts to return it, to siphon back the support she gave without throwing it back in her face. He had to admit that there were very few humans like Shepard; in some ways, he might even grudgingly accept that she would be formidable among Protheans if one looked only at her combat prowess.

It was foolish, taking their pain and making it her own. The idea chafed at him, as did Shepard's discrete but repeated insistence that his views were narrow, that he saw trees but not forests. He actually deigned to wonder what kind of forest he was missing here.


	326. Philosophical

Liara watched from the hallway as Kolyat and Shepard presided over Thane's passing. She hadn't known the man well, just what information she could pull up as the Shadow Broker—which wasn't a lot. Assassins were discreet (a polite way of saying 'shy'), and Thane was no exception.

However, that didn't mean there was nothing to find. What she found had not precisely surprised her: his professional track record was exemplary. She knew he'd had a family but that his professional and private lives had collided bloodily. And he'd reacted as one might expect: he'd retaliated with a thoroughness that did credit to his training in the attention to detail.

She'd have called it sending a message if there had been anything of substance to attach him to the murders. Messy murders at that—rage and grief were explicit in every gruesome image in the record. And yet he had not, as most would have done, allowed that rage and grief to compromise his professionalism: as far as C-Sec was concerned they were chasing a ghost.

And yet, when Shepard spoke of him it was always with great fondness. She undoubtedly knew about Thane's checkered past, but didn't concern herself with it: what concerned her was the now, and in the now she'd found him unobjectionable.

Liara's contemplations were broken when the door hissed open. Shepard, her drift a bleak grey, entered the hall, a small book gripped in a white-knuckled hand. Beneath the bleak grey was a thread of weariness, and something akin to relief—Thane had been dying and it was a hard way to go. Somewhere beneath the personal entanglement, Shepard knew that this had been for the best—quicker than Kepral's and occurring in pursuit of a good cause.

But only if she could get past the fact the fact that she'd been fond of Thane, dedicated to him as she was to all her comrades-in-arms.

"Liara?" Shepard blinked, as if surprised to find her there. She rubbed her eyes, which were red-rimmed and bloodshot, making the vivid irises even more startlingly bright.

"We shouldn't wander about alone," Liara announced diplomatically. "Any of us."

That was what she said, but she meant it less literally than might be anticipated.

"Sounds good. Have I missed anything?"

"I believe everyone has made it back to the _Normandy_. The Council is still aboard. Cerberus' holdouts are being dispatched as we speak. Their plan folded when their assassin failed in his objectives." She studied Shepard as they left the hospital.

"Thane said the guy should be ashamed—a terminally ill man kept him from finishing his objective," Shepard shook her head. "Says more about Thane than Mr. Slice and Dice. He really was the best of the best."

Despite the levity in Shepard's tone, Liara heard the death warrant there. Reapers and Cerberus had priority…but since the assassin wasinCerberus' employ Shepard would tear the galaxy apart to find the man and revoke his birth certificate.

"Do you want to tell me about him?" Liara asked hesitantly.

Shepard swallowed. "He was a good man. And he died that way."

Liara simply nodded. She would, of course, look for this assassin. Information was her thing and no one went through the galaxy without leaving fingerprints on it. One simply had to know where to look and sometimes be a bit lucky.

"We should…plan a memorial for him," Shepard finally said, once they were in a CRT car back to the docking bay.

"I think he would like that. He seemed the introspective sort." Thane's drift on the occasions she'd passed by him at Huerta had always been serene, deep and calm, its dark shadows waving vaguely like water plants. He was a man truly in balance and it was a state of being few achieved.

"He was," Shepard agreed. "He told me not to grieve for him." The words came out awkwardly, as most things of a deeply personal nature did when Shepard chose to discuss them.

"He'd been dying for some time," Liara nodded.

"Yeah. I just…" Shepard shook her head and Liara looped one of her arms around Shepard's. Shepard was not big into tactile comfort, but sometimes it spoke more than words ever could. "It's not like loss. It's like…missing a step going down stairs. You think it should be there and it's not…and you're surprised to discover it isn't where you thought it was. You stumble…and then keep going."

It was Liara's private opinion that if Thane was any student of psychology—whether he called it that or not—he would have primed Shepard carefully so that when he died it might shake her but wouldn't give her another corpse to carry. Shepard kept her dead close and didn't let go easily. Even now with this assassin, Thane's death had been beyond Shepard's control—a fact she had to accept because his death had _always_ been beyond her control, assassin or no assassin.

She blessed the drell and hoped he'd found peace in whatever afterlife he believed in. Shepard had had enough loss and while she knew there would be more…every little bit that didn't hit her like a speeding truck helped. "I think a memorial would be lovely. And I think he would like it to be on the Normandy."

Shepard nodded as she fell into pensive thought, an undercurrent of orange apprehension in her drift. Liara thought she knew what that was about: Shepard needed to find a way to narrate the affair to the SR-2's returning crewmen that Thane Krios, one of their own, was dead. It was a duty that wouldn't wait. They would all know from the ground crew—she hoped EDI had been able to slip her platform back onto the Normandy without creating any drama or distress with Alenko—what had happened. They would know Thane had been badly injured, and those who didn't know Thane would have been acquainted with him by the anecdotes of those who did.


	327. Breaking the Bad News

When Shepard arrived back at the Normandy with Liara, she felt as if she'd gone a thousand miles—on foot, with a full pack and loadout—in a single day. By now, she simply felt _numb_ , and wished she could just shower and crawl in bed, to seek dreamless sleep the better to face everything in another eight hours.

However, that was not an option. Too many people were waiting to find out where Thane was…

"EDI, where's your platform just now?" Shepard asked, pausing in the cargo bay.

" _My platform is currently in the AI Core,_ " EDI answered privately over the radio. " _I thought lengthy explanations with Spectre Alenko might be counterproductive in this period of upset._ "

"Thanks, that was a good choice." Shepard didn't relish trying to explain that Dr. Core was dead, and that the AI responsible for the Normandy now used the shell like a hand puppet. Alenko was so touchy on Cerberus issues; it was a headache Shepard simply did not want to deal with right now.

" _I take it Thane has passed_?" EDI asked.

"Yes. I'll be making the announcement momentarily," Shepard answered heavily.

"… _most of the crew who knew him, and whose duties do not immediately require them to be elsewhere, have assembled in the lounge._ "

"Thank you. Will you please ask Spectre Alenko to join us there?"

" _Of course,_ " EDI answered. " _Done. If you make your way to the elevator, he says he will meet you there._ "

"Thanks." Shepard and Liara started off, meeting a somber-looking Alenko at the elevator. He didn't ask questions or press for details, probably sensing that both were forthcoming. Doubtless, he also read the bad news in her posture.

The lounge seemed very full, most of the ground team waiting like so many nervous cats. "EDI, can you put me on the comm?" Shepard asked, once the door closed behind her, and once Alenko and Liara sat on either side of Garrus.

"The comm is yours, Captain," EDI answered demurely.

"To the crew of the SSV Normandy, SR-2," Shepard began slowly, her eyes stinging. "I regret to inform you that crewman Thane Krios has passed away. He was killed in gallant action during the Cerberus attempt to capture the Citadel." She was glad that personal statements would come later. There was a certain flow, a certain form that could be followed for announcements like this. "His sacrifice saved many lives. Details surrounding his memorial will be forthcoming for those who wish to participate. That is all."

Shepard dropped unthinkingly into the space between Garrus and Alenko, burying her head in her hands.

"He didn't linger?" Garrus asked practically, his mandibles trembling, eyes looking strangely coated.

"No. Just long enough to say what needed to be said." Shepard gave a brittle laugh. "He says our mysterious mystery guest should be ashamed: he let a terminally ill man foul his mission."

Several people gave wry laughs.

"Oh, that's Thane," Garrus chuckled. "He liked irony."

"Do we know anything about this mystery guest?" Alenko asked.

"Nope. Just that he's probably off the station by now."

"Through the sewers with the rest of the rats," Vega put in icily, holding up a finger as if voting.

"Seconded," Gabby Daniels declared coldly before wrapping her arms around her middle, eyes very bright.

Awkwardly, Donnelly put an arm around her shoulders, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

Shepard leaned against Garrus' shoulder for a moment. Abruptly, she was exhausted. Weary beyond measure.

Suddenly she straightened and leaned against Alenko's shoulder, startling the man. "Sorry Garrus," she mumbled, "his shoulder's comfier."

"No offense taken," Garrus chuckled. "No one ever called turians a cuddly people."

"Not if they wished to survive the reprisal," Javik observed dourly.

It surprised Shepard to find him here, in a room dedicated to communal grief. He hadn't known Thane at all. Or maybe he was simply observing how 'primitives' dealt with loss. Or maybe Thane had somehow impressed even the irascible Prothean. She didn't have the energy to puzzle out the answer. It was enough that he'd decided to be here, to join the crew, even if only for a little while.

Shepard's eyes closed, and were far too slow to open again. Even covered by heavy armor plates, Alenko's shoulder _was_ more comfortable than Garrus'.

Slowly, hesitantly—whether because he wasn't sure it was allowed, or because he wasn't sure if it was something anyone else should see—Alenko wrapped an arm around her shoulders. It was a gesture any teammate might make to another, and she was grateful he didn't let an armed standoff a few hours ago get in the way.

Everyone jumped, and Shepard broke out of her state of half-sleep when someone kicked something—it turned out to be Daniels kicking the bar for want of any better target—before barking, "Kriffing Cerberus!" Then, she blushed and subsided.

Shepard laughed. She couldn't help it. Daniels looked so embarrassed at her outburst, yet so mutinous over Cerberus killing one of the crew, that it was impossible not to smile, at the very least. "I think you summed it up for all of us, Daniels."

"Creep like that? He's bound to want a second helping," Vega declared morosely.

"Agreed," Liara nodded. "Bailey's already run him through C-Sec's perpetrator-base, and if I'm not wrong, he'll pass images to every military still holding together, to see what they know. He _might_ also have contacted the Shadow Broker to see if he knows anything."

"And does he?" Shepard asked. "Or has he not got back to you, yet?"

Liara's smile was icy. "I imagine he'll have something for me before breakfast, if he's lazy. Don't worry, Shepard. This won't go unanswered."

Shepard nodded, knowing she had little time to unshackle the necessity of this fellow dying from the desire that he die because he killed a friend. Thane would prefer not to be the reason for such an execution, she knew. Thankfully, in this case, the guy had to die anyway.


	328. Assets

As soon as it was deemed safe, Liara made her way off the Normandy—over which a pall of mourning for Thane hung—for Purgatory.

Aria, surrounded by her goons, seemed to be holding some kind of war council, but the area was blocked off by two surly batarians with shotguns, while both Aria and her people kept their voices down.

Up at the bar by the dance floor sat Aethyta, shotgun propped against the bar, a Thessian Tower in the glass before her.

Liara sat down beside her, and the matriarch motioned to the bartended for another drink. Liara gladly accepted it, feeling she could use one. Glyph was already combing the Shadow Broker's extensive files to see if Mr. Slice and Dice—to quote Shepard—appeared in any of them. He was to alert her if he found anything, then compile everything he could find.

"You know, you should really be calling these Thessian Mausoleums. There's no kick to 'em, hon," Aethyta informed the bartender, who rolled his eyes.

"Noted, ma'am."

Aethyta grimaced, muttering about 'ma'am' making her sound like someone's great-grandmother.

"I'm glad you're alright," Liara said, sipping her Tower cautiously. Aethyta was right; it did lack a little something. Surprising to find a watered-down drink in Aria's club.

"That shield module was a real lifesaver," Aethyta answered.

Liara didn't know if she believed this, but she didn't question it, either. "I'm glad it did what it was supposed to do: help."

"It did."

The two asari spent a few more minutes drinking in silent contemplation. Liara's omnitool flared, revealing a message from Glyph…and an old photograph of a young man with dark hair and eyes, wearing Alliance blue. The caption identified him as 'Leng, Kai.'

So, the Shadow Broker _did_ know something about him. Good. Doubtless Glyph would have a nice little report pulled together when she got back, and she would have one when Shepard was ready.

She sent instructions in a reply for Glyph to search the Shadow Broker's secure archives first, then move out to the wider extranet. She studied the much younger assassin. He had a sharp, clever look to him. She wondered if he'd known, when this photo was taken, that he would end up working for one of the most lunatic men and corrupt organizations in the galaxy when he got older.

"New boyfriend?" Aethyta asked, peering over her shoulder at the photo.

"New corpse in need of a toe tag," Liara answered bluntly.

"Ah."

Liara grimaced, knowing that the teasing, knowing tone in Aethyta's voice was simply there to get her to bristle. Aethyta did enjoy winding her up…or trying to. In this, her father's humor was quite juvenile.

"Hey, listen," Aethyta nudged her with an elbow.

"I'm listening."

"No, seriously, no bullshit."

Liara finished her drink, ordered a second round, then turned on her stool to face Aethyta, who looked mildly uncomfortable. "What's on your mind?"

The older asari produced a datapad, which she frowned at for a few moments, then put it on the bar and slid it over to Liara. Curiously, Liara picked it up and turned it on.

"I've been thinking. Called in a few favors. Mercs, mostly Eclipse girls who owe me a favor. A handful of huntresses who think we're not pointed in the fight's direction. A few others who just owe me. I called in my chips, and they're all yours," Aethyta declared stiffly, watching Liara through the corners of her eyes.

Liara looked at the list, itemized with names, specialties, contact information. "You're…giving _me_ asari commandos?" she asked, stunned by the talent pool which apparently owed Aethyta something. More than that, she was surprised to have all these favors suddenly called in and dropped in her lap.

Aethyta snorted and drained her drink. "Well, you're too old for me to buy you a damn pony," she grumped.

Liara giggled. Actually, giggled, then threw an arm—not without some reservations—around Aethyta's shoulder and kissed her cheek. "You're the best dad a girl could ask for."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…get off…" the older woman grumbled, squirming slightly where she sat. "I'm still spying on you, remember?"

Liara laughed again and tapped the bar. "Another round—and this time, break out the top shelf stuff!"

The bartender did so. Then, with a glare at Aethyta as he placed the two drinks on the bar, "Who do you think told me not to get her contact liquored up, huh?"

Aethyta turned purple, her eyes narrowing at the bartender who simply snorted, rolled his eyes and moved to the other end of the bar.

"I believe the human word is 'busted,'" Liara chuckled, patting the bar rather than Aethyta's shoulder.

"I believe the asari word is 'toast,'" Aethyta responded grimly, sipping her drink before giving a long sigh. "Oh, that's better. That's a hell of a lot better."

Liara smiled, sipping her Thessian Tower as she continued reading the long, long list of contacts there. Aethyta was right: she was too old for a pony. It was a very practical gift from a very practical person, and it warmed Liara's heart more than a little. "Will you be staying on the Citadel?"

"Haven't been reassigned," Aethyta shrugged. "Hey, before I forget. You watch your little blue ass out there, yeah? I've got a bad feeling, like something's not right."

Beyond monstrous synthetics savaging the galaxy like a hungry varren with a meaty bone? "I should tell you not to worry…but I'm kind of glad you do."

Aethyta dropped her voice, almost to the point that Liara had to read her lips to catch all she said. "I think Her Highness over there is about to try something, herself. Maybe let your friend Shepard know. Also, don't put a lot of reliance on Irissa being useful. If she's got you by the neck, she'll squeeze just to see you squirm…but she's not a wartime leader, she _loves_ being Councilor, and she's going to start making mistakes soon."


	329. Commit

Javik had not expected to find himself face-to-face with any of these Council primitives. However, the turian had walked in, with the air of someone poking about because he couldn't hold still. From what Javik understood of the rest of the Council, perhaps it should not be surprising.

His impressions of the Council that ruled this boggled galaxy were singularly low. More than that, their presence agitated the crew. While the crew might tolerate these outsiders on Shepard's word alone, he did not feel quite so beholden to her.

"You are the Turian Councilor, are you not?" Javik demanded, ignoring the curiosity emanating from the turian.

"I am," the turian answered, tone polite. "And you are?"

"Prothean," Javik answered, bypassing the actual question in favor of answering the one he could tell was burning in the turian's mind. Sapient species were all fairly known to one another. He, being unique, stood out. It distracted people. "If it is true, that you are the Turian Councilor, then why did you not compel your government to support this war fully?"

The turian's eyebrow plates rose up. "I beg your pardon?"

And here Javik thought he'd been clear. "I asked why you failed to compel your government to action, if this Council rules the galaxy," Javik repeated. "All the nonsense that has been required heretofore is ridiculous. The Council cannot unify its strength, so a Summit is required—and the asari fail to participate. The Summit comes to a conclusion, but the Council refuses to back it. Are you in this war, or are you not?" He found himself drumming his fingers idly on his arm.

Clearly, the turian was unaccustomed to being accosted in such a fashion. The sad thing was that Javik felt he had minded his manners, keeping most of his derision of primitives out of his tone.

"…a Council member doesn't have the authority to order his or her own government…" the turian answered slowly.

"Then your government should be ordering you? Why have you not been commanded to facilitate the war effort?" Javik asked.

"…it doesn't quite work like that, either…"

Javik frowned. "Do you mean to say that this Council pretends to be in charge, except when it pretends it is not? If so, what good are any of you?"

"The Council organizes galactic affairs," the turian answered slowly. "We coordinate all species—"

"Then why have you not coordinated them to fight the Reapers? Why are we wasting time with these ridiculous diplomatic stunts?" Javik pressed, irritating that only half-belonged to the room's previous occupant rising.

"Because it's not that simple."

"It is. Fight, or die."

The turian took a deep breath, his crest flaring. "Perhaps it is simple in _your_ position," he allowed, clearly trying to avoid entering an argument.

"My position is _very_ simple. If someone hinders the war effort, I shoot him in the head. If someone betrays the war effort, I cut off his limbs, bury him to the neck in sand on a desert world, and let him choose between eating his own flesh and starving."

So that was what an appalled turian looked like. Interesting.

"What's going on, here?" Garrus demanded wearily, but trying to hide it.

"I was asking the Turian Councilor to explain galactic politics to me," Javik answered, as sweetly as his acerbic personality allowed.

The Councilor had gotten the message: if he became part of the problem, they would have having a very different kind of conversation.

"And your Prothean friend—pardon me for not using his name, but he refuses to introduce himself like a _civilized_ individual—was explaining how Prothean politics worked."

"I see." Given his grimace, Garrus certainly did. "Councilor Quentius, this is Javik…" Garrus blinked.

Probably at a loss, since Javik had never given a surname…and had no surname to give.

"Javik is one of our Reaper experts," Garrus concluded.

"Thank you, Javik," Quentius declared loftily. "Our little chat has been quite enlightening."

"Perhaps you should tell that to Dr. T'Soni. I know she would appreciate hearing it."

Garrus suddenly choked, in the manner that suggested to Javik that he'd choked on a laugh.

Liara, of course, would laugh in the face of anyone who called Javik's conversation 'enlightening.' Or think they were joking at her expense and warp them into a puddle of goo.

"Councilor, it's almost mealtime. I was hoping you might help me convince Councilor Irissa and Councilor Esheel not to completely alienate the crew hosting them."

"So you cannot control your own governments," Javik began when Quentius sighed and shook his head slowly, as if this was as task he shied away from. Coward-like. "You cannot control other species. And you cannot even control your fellow Councilors? What _good_ is all this infrastructure if it doesn't actually _do_ anything?"

"If you've taken time to read history, you'll see that the Councils have achieved a great deal," Quentius answered shortly.

"Yes. Many punishments for infractions, many laws that others must follow—whether they are aware of it or not. And yet you stand there and tell me you have no authority when it really matters. I find your politics endlessly confusing. I also think it could be made much simpler."

Quentius' expression was sharp like cut glass. "Yes, because Prothean politics worked _so well_. It didn't save your people. Ours still have a chance."

Javik's eyes were cold. The reality didn't bother him. The lunacy of the leadership did. "Here I stand," he said simply, indicating the ship. "And here I shall stay."

Quentius thought he was being pert. It showed when the turian shrugged and stalked out of the room.

What startled Javik was that Garrus apparently understood more in the statement than Javik meant anyone to. The turian regarded him thoughtfully, then, "Thank you, Javik. I'm glad you feel that way." With that, Garrus withdrew.

Javik shuddered, disliking the idea that someone could understand him so clearly, especially when he was using words to hide his meaning.


	330. Enemy Mine

As General Corinthus settled down for the night, he wasn't sure he hadn't simply been dreaming to begin with. He expected to wake up to find that nothing had changed, that Reapers were still steamrolling Menae (though he would like to think that his men were putting up a terrific fight), that morale was slipping, and only the sight of burning Palaven overhead kept the men from breaking.

However, the sounds of rough, low voices from the infirmary down the hall told him he hadn't dreamed it all. At about thirteen hundred, transports flying mercenary colors—the most motley assortment of ships he'd ever seen, dropped out of atmo long enough for krogan by the dozen to jump out. The ships immediately took off, leaving krogan to swarm their landing zones, shouting and bellowing challenges…

-J-

…howling and bellowing challenges, he watched as krogan charged enemies indiscriminately—almost. The Reapers like batarians were charged with gusto; husks got bullets at range (though he caught one or two of the krogan charging packs of them only to batter them into pulp with the butt ends of rifles or the occasional club). The biggest were softened up at range only to have close-range fighters flank them. It was not the chaos of a trained army: they were the tactics of a guerilla movement, hit hard, hit fast, disappear.

Except the krogan seemed to have no ideas about disappearing. His translator couldn't handle whatever they shouted back and forth—definitely a rallying call and answer, nor did it catch the call that went up every time a krogan fell and didn't get back up. All he had were the evidences of his eyes: one was encouragement, the other salt in a wound that made them fight all the harder.

He could see, suddenly, why the genophage had been the only solution. They were a mudslide across an angled plain—

It had been a further surprise when, as the Reapers were pushed back from his own beleaguered unit, the krogan broke into two distinct groups: one that hit like a hammer and the other scavenging wounded turians off the field. It was only as this latter group approached that he realized why they looked odd: they were female…

"Are you hurt?" one of them asked simply, her dark eyes roving over him in a detached fashion.

"Superficially," he answered, watching as krogan stooped and shouldered lanky turians in rescue lifts. "What are you waiting for?" he barked to his nerve-shattered men who were as shocked by the change in situation as he was and seemed to have either lost their focus or were chomping at the bit to follow the successful push. "Medics hold back! The rest of you, number off, two units, cover the flanks of the push!"

The turians obeyed, peeling off right and left. He moved forward to follow but a thick-fingered hand closed on his wrist.

"You need to stay." She was watching the way he moved, noticing that he favored one side. She didn't press the issue. "If you're not in charge, find out who is. We need to get these people away from the fighting. And we'd like to _not_ be peppered with bullets when we get them somewhere safe."

That…was probably a good idea, as much as he hated being detached from his men. But they had their orders and knew what to do once the need for change arrived. And turians were good at war: both units would have at least one capable officer; the best of them would have made sure he knew where the others were and align himself accordingly.

So they moved out. There wasn't much else to do, and the welfare of his men came first; it had to. As soon as they were away from the krogan frontline with its turian flankers, which drove like a wedge into the Reaper forces, the females set down their burdens with more care than Corinthus could have imagined. No flopping the injured around like so much meat in a metal tin, no rough jerks to get them on their sides instead of easing tangled messes onto their sides. Armed with nothing more sophisticated than basic medics' packs, wounds were plugged or covered, the bleeding stopped before the injured were allowed to either limp or were carried back to the FOB.

There was no xenobiological training them, just krogan practicality. And it would be enough for most of the men.

There had been losses, of course, but far fewer than if the krogan hadn't arrived.

He never thought he would owe anything to a krogan, but there were more at the FOB. There were also a lot of dead Reapers, and not the small ones, either.

"I see you favoring that side. Your men need you. So either you peel off so I can patch you, or I will peel you and patch you anyway."

Corinthus blinked.

"Yes, you," the female responded with a wry twist of her lip.

There was only one thing to do, because she looked like she could back up her threat and he would rather not be wrangled like an errant child in front of his new battery of shocked soldiers. "Who are you?" It was a stupid question, but he didn't think silent compliance was wise.

She glanced over her shoulder, then back to him. "I am Wrath."

He frowned at this. Something about it sounded odd.

She chuckled. "It's not that difficult. I am the wrath of a world rejuvenated now threatened. I am the wrath of a mother whose child is threatened. And I am the wrath that will fight for the unborn of my world. Right now, though, I'm mending turians. It's enough, for now." She chuckled darkly at this as she slapped the handful of medigel onto the bullet wound he'd been ignoring. With his armor patched with a medigel/omnigel plug, it had been painful but not life-threatening.

-J-

Corinthus jerked awake.

"Time to check your bandages."


	331. Holding the Bag

Councilor Paul Gujir leaned on his desk as Secretary Phillips regarded him with a grim expression. Previously a cheerful and energetic girl, Phillips had really hit her stride once the Reaper War started. She wasn't a fighter, but she'd thrown herself into anything and everything that would keep the Senate running smoothly—as much as one person could do, and a little more, she did.

To his surprise, it turned out she was quite adept with ways and means. However, she seemed to have hit a wall if her expression was any indication. She'd been wearing an increasingly sour expression as the Senate members had left, first in an exodus then furtively as the Reaper Front drew closer.

He sighed to himself. Out of the original fifty senators, ten remained—and he wasn't so sure Varley hadn't slipped off in that last wave of ships. He was still waiting on word about which ones those were…but he had a nasty, nasty feeling he already knew.

It was strange, standing here in the nearly empty Senate building—him, a career politician and not the bravest man he knew. Yet here he was, regarding Phillips as mechanized aliens cruised closer and closer to his little lump of a world. He'd always assumed he'd be one of the first to jump ship if something bad ever happened.

Maybe he was braver than he thought, since he couldn't bring himself to join that first exodus.

Maybe the Reapers were just so far beyond 'something bad' that they just didn't count.

It didn't matter, in the end. "Let's have the bad news, Elissa."

Phillips nodded at him. "The emergency fund's gone, sir. We don't have the credits to hire enough ships to evacuate the colony before the Reapers get here. Not with the prices their captains are asking." And her tone said that she'd tried everything she knew to no avail.

It was a mercenary thing, but it didn't exactly surprise him. There were always those who profited from war…and this just went to show it. He looked back over his career, tried to tally up the various appropriations the Senate approved over the years—the ones that weren't strictly necessary, the ones 'for the betterment of my constituents' that only warranted the description by virtue of technicality. He was as guilty as anyone else, as any other politician on any other world…and he found himself wondering if a rainy day fund with all those credits mightn't have been a better use of them.

That was the thing about hindsight, he thought with a shake of his head.

And then he stopped, an idea flashing into his mind like lightening. There _was_ a rainy day fund…lots of them. Enough? Possibly.

"What about the military?" he asked, opening the drawers of his desk. He was, after all, the Councilor. He had the keys, the codes, little tidbits of information most people forgot he had because it was never really discussed.

"They left an hour ago," Phillips answered quietly, trying not to sound accusing. "They said…they said it's too much of a risk to come back."

"Did they?" He was disappointed, too, and knew he'd resent them for the abandonment later.

"Yes, sir."

He pulled out the passkey from its spot in the back of the bottom drawer of his desk—the one he didn't use often enough to remember day to day what all was in it. The passkey represented career suicide, even if he had a copy. With the passkey came a datapad to which it was anchored. He handed both to Phillips before turning to look out the window behind his desk. He'd grown up, here. It looked like he might well die here, too.

He simply couldn't justify leaving unless he was the last—or one of the last—men out. It surprised him a little, but he didn't question it. He knew there was no way to evacuate _everyone_. He'd leave the ways and means to Phillips. Meanwhile…

The thought was chilling, but only in the way of reading an unexpectedly ugly scene in a book.

"This…is this a passkey, sir?" Phillips activated the datapad. "And an inventory?" He could feel her surprise even if he couldn't see it.

"Phillips, I am authorizing you on behalf of this city's Senate to seize any and all eezo stockpiles in our treasury in order to secure safe passage for our citizens on any available ships," he answered calmly. He wondered, if anyone of them survived the Reapers and came back, how many of his fellow senators would be shocked and disappointed to find the stockpiles exhausted to the last gram. The thought of the opposing party leader's expression almost made him smile.

Almost.

"These look like private stockpiles. _Senate_ members' stockpiles."

That she should sound so shocked…

"I'm foregoing re-election. Now get us those ships." It wasn't how he expected to get out of politics. The idea that he might actually be re-elected when this was all over for 'notorious adherence to his duty' barely flickered across his mind.

It just wasn't how he expected to get out of politics—almost literally at gunpoint with mercenaries who had him by the balls. Put that way, it was almost funny, ironic even, when one considered some of his own 'negotiations' over the years.

"Yes, sir!" Phillips answered, buoyed up by the new resources she could use to do what had, half an hour ago, been utterly impossible.

As soon as her shoes stopped tapping against the floor, he opened the cabinet on the wall and pulled out the bottle of brandy he saved for special occasions, particularly significant 'wins', or the occasional very important guest. He poured himself a generous measure and went back to stand by the window, looking out over the bright, sunny day. It was, possibly, the best weather they'd had for a week.

It was ironic that such good weather would herald such a storm as was bearing down on them.


	332. Battlefields

It never rained but it poured. Tali regarded the news from the past week, cuing her omnitool to pull down further documentation, now that she knew where to look. The genopahge cured; krogan to aid a beleaguered Palaven; Cerberus attacking the Citadel; human ambassador dead (no great loss there). One minute the galaxy seemed horribly fragmented, but it seemed that Shepard had finally begun getting things rolling.

Shepard had something to say about both events, always the same thing: stand together, stand strong. Now was the time to let old wounds heal…and there was no better time for everyone to remember that all sapients bled alike and died alike, no matter what color they bled.

It was good to hear she had misgivings about curing the genophage…but Tali could see how that wouldn't have been a simple decision.

She'd been looking in the wrong places for news of Shepard, but both those broadcasts—with their galaxy-wide import—had been widely publicized. More so than the show covering them had been previously. The Alliance News Network's _Battlespace_ apparently had a reporter embedded with the Normandy. That was one way to make sure news got out to the galaxy at large who still had access to newsfeeds. Most of the stuff until now had been minor, the kind of news coming out of the larger galaxy that was becoming all too familiar.

She took her reasons for optimism where she could get them: Shepard, it seemed, had been every bit as busy as Tali had expected her to be.

Grissom academy? Saved from Cerberus.

Cerberus offensive on Eden Prime? Halted.

Sur'kesh? Cerberus invasion halted.

Krogan-turian alliance? Implemented.

Cerberus offensive on the Citadel? Thwarted, Council saved.

Was it just her, or was Cerberus not only more active than usual but being stupider than usual? Because they seemed to be doing more to help the Reapers than anyone else. How could a pro-human organization not see that? They'd been (relatively) sensible about the Collectors, loath as she was to admit it.

There was also bad news—a drell whose name she didn't recognize* had been killed during the offensive, protecting the salarian Councilor. She might not recognize the name, but she was sure she recognized who that had been. Thane. She'd never been close to him, but she knew that Shepard and Samara had both been friendly with and thought highly of him. He'd been dying when she met him, but he'd always seemed so calm about it; death wasn't scary for him. Having spent so much time around the eclectic group Shepard invariably attracted, she found that death was still scary for her…but going out fighting was a better to go than many she could think of.

She sighed heavily, leaning on the desk as the grating voice of Diana Allers filled her quarters, beginning with the first broadcast. The following broadcasts reconfirmed for her that Garrus was both alive and with Shepard. That was a relief, because Shepard jealously guarded the identities of the people she worked with.

Tali knew why: it did something to keep targets off the backs of those people's families. She felt that the Reapers wouldn't care so much about expending the resources needed to compromise her crewmen individually. It was bad enough to get word of new worlds under attack…or those the Reapers decided they'd chewed on enough and would come back for later.

It made her wonder why the Reapers hadn't come for the Flotilla.

The answer came to her in an almost off-handed fashion as she reached for her now-cold tea. There was no point: all they had to do was show up, a handful of them, and start shooting. One hull breach was all it took in some cases. The quarians dwelled in space, not on a planet. Not a lot of places to hide, and the Flotilla wasn't exactly inconspicuous.

She sighed, grimacing at the cool drink but sipping it down anyway.

At least someone was able to push back.

Speaking of pushing back, she had concerns of her own.

Gerrel and Koris were stratifying even more than usual. Over the past few months, Gerrel grew more the warhawk and Koris more the opposite, whatever that was called. There was no reason for it, but she'd found out something kept scrupulously away from her. It wasn't surprising, since it had happened before her appointment to the Admiralty Board: Xen had gotten ahold of leftovers from the _Alarei_ and was having a field day (many field days).

Xen made Tali miss Mordin. Mordin had been eccentric—Raan's favorite word for Xen—but it seemed far too benign a word for Xen.

Xen and Gerrel caused her the most difficulty: Gerrel always wanted to fight _someone_. She hadn't known how much trouble he'd been causing over the years and knowing did nothing to give her any faith in him. He'd been on her side at the trial, but politically…well. She knew him better now, enough to know what his support at that time had really meant.

Xen, she just wanted to build toys and then play with them. Tali understood the concept of 'peace through superior firepower' but she did think that something useful in peacetime coming out of Xen's workshop would be nice every now and then.

And she could not entirely erase the suspicion that somewhere in Xen's and Gerrel's minds was a plan for expansion once the major powers in the galaxy had been brought down a peg or two.

As if any experience with the geth could stack up as useful against the Reapers. She'd delicately pointed this out to Xen, once, when the topic of Reapers and the Flotilla came up. She still wanted to throw something as she remembered Xen's patronizing response that the only difference was _scale_ and a few species-centric minutia. Easily overcome, since AI were not as diverse as organics. How could they be?

Tali only sighed, burying her face in her hands—then and now.

-J-

Author's Note: The reason she doesn't recognize the name, is because Thane's alias—Tannor Nuara—was used instead. It was the name on his Huerta Memorial paperwork.


	333. Mercy

Victus knew, when Shepard caught him on his own with such a serious expression on her face, that whatever she had to say was personal. With the genophage cured and the Citadel considered 'under control,' he was about to rotate off the _Normandy—_ along with the Council—to an office on the Citadel at the turian embassy.

Part of him regretted this, though it was sometimes hard to look at Shepard and not think to himself 'if I had played straight with you, perhaps Tarquin wouldn't have died.' He didn't blame her for this impression; she never gave any indication that she saw Tarquin's death as anything more or less than one more good soldier killed in action. It was an impression that was all in his head, and he knew that it would stay there.

"This is for your wife," Shepard announced without preamble, holding out a datapad to him. "You'll need to supply her name."

Victus took it from her, frowning at it before a cold suspicion gripped his gizzard. He activated the datapad and inwardly cringed. It was exactly what he thought—and dreaded—it was.

 _To [Mrs. Adrien Victus]:_

 _On behalf of a grateful galaxy is it my duty to inform you that your son, Tarquin […] Victus, was killed in action on Tuchanka. His actions resulted in the saving of millions of lives in the immediate present and his self-sacrifice to secure those lives will not be forgotten._

Victus didn't read any more of the letter—which was only a little bit longer than the portion he read—except to look at Shepard's name signed at the bottom. A warble Shepard couldn't hear—a fact for which he was once again grateful—rose up in his throat. "Thank you, Captain," Victus said, more thickly than he would have liked.

"A father shouldn't have to write The Letter for his own son," Shepard said quietly. "And a wife shouldn't have to see The Letter signed by her husband."

They both knew there was a small chance that Valeria would ever see The Letter, as Shepard called it. But the courtesy in his hand meant something to Victus. It meant that, if he was ever reunited with his wife, he would have something to say other than 'I got our son killed because I was stupid.'

There was some relief in that. If it had been left to him to write The Letter, he wasn't sure he could have. He knew he deserved the pain of it, and he was grateful to Shepard for sparing him from it.

"Thank you, Captain," Victus said quietly. "This will…mean something to Valeria, when she gets it." He, like everyone else, had to believe there was a 'when.' Otherwise, what hope was there really?

"I hope so. Excuse me, Primarch." With that, Shepard absented herself.

The Letter was heavy in his hand, as was the knowledge that if it weren't for his bad decisions it might not have been necessary. The stony look on Shepard's expression indicated regret…but not blame. She was past blaming him, which was fine: he still blamed himself. Vakarian had hinted that Shepard was not much for blame games—something that might come in handy, might even be invaluable, once the war was over.

When dust settled, people often turned to such things, simply for familiarity.

Victus sighed and retreated to Life Support, which was always empty, holding The Letter tightly in his hand. For a moment he considered the possibility that he was the only member of his family left, that even if the Reapers were defeated he would have to build something new with his wife dead through no one's fault and his son dead through his own.

It seemed like a very bleak future.

-J-

When Victus next passed the Normandy's Memorial Wall, he found two additions to it. Firstly, were two new names carefully chalked on placards: _Solus, Mordin_ and _Krios, Thane_. The second addition sat on the base of the monument, a bright splash of color against the black: someone had brought an orange-colored seashell with a delicate pink lining and left it there. He thought he knew who and he thought he knew why. To which of the dead men it pertained, though, he couldn't even guess.

The deaths were felt strongly by the Normandy's crewmen. It showed in the way that those members of the crew who knew the salarian gathered together before asking Shepard to tell them how it happened, so she wouldn't have to repeat it. So they could share in her grief.

Sharing a grief was a good way to cope with it; Victus found he knew that firsthand by now. The Ninth Platoon grieved the loss of many good men and women. They didn't have the trouble of being like a coin—a thing with two faces. One that mourned the loss of good men and women, but understood that they had perished securing and objective, the other which was a father mourning the death of his only child due to one officer's foolish actions.

Victus heaved a heavy sigh, then turned on his heel and headed for the airlock. Although he would be leaving the Normandy soon, there was one thing he could do. Tarquin had never been a member of the Normandy's crew, but Dr. Solus and Mr. Krios had been.

He owed the salarian a debt for his part in obtaining aid for Palaven. He didn't know what the humans aboard the Normandy believed or what Dr. Solus believed, or what Mr. Krios beleived…but according to his own beliefs, neither man was as far away from the _Normandy_ as those who knew them seemed to think. He hadn't known the men well, but he felt certain their spirits would have stayed here.

The least he could do was leave his own small memorial to honor these two of the Normandy's dead, just as the Normandy—in the form of Captain Shepard—had honored his.


	334. Deal with the Devil

Shepard climbed into the car with Aria, crossing her arms as she settled in the back seat.

"Drive."

"This isn't exactly reassuring," Shepard noted dryly as the vehicle descended.

"Too many eyes and ears in Purgatory. You understand," Aria answered.

"This about Omega?"

"This is about your war."

" _My_ war?"

"Of course. Omega's a major hub. Cerberus has it, so they have the Terminus systems by the balls. They can move around freely…and you can't."

Shepard nodded once. A fair assessment and, of course, Aria would never do anything for anyone without some kind of payoff…not unless there was no choice. Appearances and all that, she assumed. "So where do I come in?"

"2176, a little rock called Elysium. I believe you were a prominent figure."

"One of them." She'd been an unlucky troop that the _El Alamein's_ CO almost forcibly evicted from the ship for a few hours. It was the last 'vacation' Shepard ever took.

"You versus ten thousand pirates—essentially. I want you to do it again."

"Pull a rabbit out of my ass?"

"Fight my ground war. I need the best. And that's you."

Shepard supposed she should be flattered. "One Alliance officer does not an army make."

Aria gave her cold chuckle and her razorblade smile, "I have a fleet of ships ready to go in with us. I have ground forces ready and they know that if you talk they obey as if they were listening to me and with the same consequences if they don't. And, because I know how you work, you won't be alone up at the front."

"Who's this?" Shepard asked as Aria passed her a datapad. The figure scowled at her with hawk-like concentration above his Cerberus 'officer's' jacket.

"Top strategist and the Illusive Man's best-kept little secret, General Olav Petrovsky—leader of the Cerberus Occupation and someone who _isn't_ going to see his next birthday. The one who ousted me."

"Anything special about him? What's your intel?" Shepard asked, setting the datapad aside.

"Massive army, tight lockdown of the whole station."

"And?"

"What 'and'? That's all we know, point blank, full stop."

"Damn," Shepard exhaled thoughtfully, picking up the datapad again.

"As far as personal details, he's a merciless bastard," Aria concluded, sounding morose but looking homicidal.

"Mm-hmm." Because that summed up pretty much any leadership on Omega. Once again, Shepard found herself aching for the people stuck on that corrupt chunk of space-rock.

"Shepard," Aria began in a tone of assumed patience, "I know my reputation. I know I'm hated. I ruled Omega with an iron fist. But the people were _free._ Their lives were _theirs_. _I_ preserved that."

Unless you counted the fact that one couldn't walk down a street without finding trouble. Shepard had no intention of arguing politics with Aria—with Cerberus hopefully reeling from being repelled from the Citadel, a second major assault in a short span of time might just wrong-foot them.

Even Miranda admitted Cerberus' resources weren't unlimited. Then again, neither were anyone else's.

"You haven't asked what's in it for you."

"I figured you were working around to it," Shepard answered. "I knew there had to be something. You like things to be in the nature of business transactions." That was her experience with Aria, a little give, a little take. Usually a lot of take. No one ever said the dealings were fair. However, this was also time of war, and Shepard had high expectations.

"Don't think you know me, Shepard," Aria said dangerously.

"So, what's the going rate for a _successful_ coup?"

"Everything I've got: ships, the unaffiliated mercs, eezo, free access through my relay for a ship flying military colors—all of it, all yours."

That was a little more than she expected. Shepard shifted, crossing her arms and closing her eyes. "I'll need my team."

"Absolutely not."

"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you right," Shepard answered, "I don't work alone. I'm the best because I work with the best. You want him gone? I need my crew. People I trust."

"Forget it. Let's say I have issues with some of the company you keep—some of it is quite objectionable. You'll be leaving your ship and crew behind for this one."

Shepard gritted her teeth, knowing as well as Aria did that she would eventually agree to these terms. She couldn't afford not to.

"If you won't do it for the pleasure of kneecapping Cerberus' operations on a large scale—not once, but twice in a row—do it for the materiel. I don't expect patriotism into the bargain."

"Oh, I'm doing it," Shepard admitted, wondering why Aria felt the need to press the point. Or maybe it was a hint at something deeper than the asari's usual poker face finally oozing to the top. "Doesn't mean I like trusting people I don't know."

"I'm hurt. If it helps, think of it this way—I want you all to myself." Aria's fingers brushed Shepard's knee.

"I'm flattered."

"You should be. Because I know you like to work with a team and I know this isn't a one-woman job. That is why I'm going with you. On the ground. At the front."

"Also, if you can get first swing at Petrovsky…" Shepard twirled a finger suggestively.

"There's that, too," Aria shrugged.

They could work out the details of that questionable arrangement later, Shepard thought. "I need an hour to get my gear and put things in order back on the Normandy."

"I've waited this long. Departure is twenty-three hundred tonight."

Silence fell as the driver brought the skycar back to the trip's point of origin.

"Bray will pick you up here. When you're ready, she'll bring you to me," Aria declared.

"Noted." Shepard and Bray both climbed out of the car, which immediately sealed itself and slipped away.

"Huh. Can't wait to see what the fuss is all about," Bray declared as Shepard stated towards the Normandy's docking bay.

"You and me both," she muttered.


	335. Flying Solo

Shepard returned to the Normandy feeling ready to collapse from weariness, but knowing this was no time for naps. She stopped at the thought, bit the inside of her lip. Some of her own advice and admonitions given over the years came back to niggle at her mind.

But she couldn't pass up this strategic window of opportunity: two major Cerberus setups foiled so close together might just be enough to tip the Illusive Man off his game. She could nap in the shuttle, so she'd just have to hang in there until then.

"EDI, where's Garrus?"

" _He is currently on the cargo bay treadmill. Shall I page him?_ "

"Not yet." Then, unable to resist asking, "Where're my guest Spectres?"

" _Spectre Kerrina is currently chatting with Dr. T'Soni. Spectre Alenko is continuing to supervise the Council's asylum._ "

Shepard nodded, unable to think of anything to say that did not sound clichéd, rude, or sanctimonious. She teetered for a moment. "Can you call Garrus and Alenko to the armory? I need a word." As much as she did not want to waste time, she knew better than to fling herself heedlessly into the arms of another mission without adequately preparing for it. If she packed now, she would have ample time to check and double-check equipment as a means of taking a break from the constant demands for updates or suggestions about the chaos on the Citadel.

Being prepared was especially essential in the case of any mission involving Aria T'Loak. She didn't trust the asari, had no intentions of doing so without reservation, but Aria was right: Cerberus was, at the very least, disrupted with their coup thwarted. Breaking their hold on Omega might be enough to truly unbalance them.

She couldn't pass up the chance.

She changed into a clean uniform, then headed down to the loadout area.

"Taking a road trip, are we?" Garrus asked amiably from the bench before the lockers.

"As of twenty-three hundred hours," Shepard answered, "I'll be leaving you in charge until I get back. Keep a lid on things?"

"Me? I'm not coming with?" Garrus' mandibles waved as if hoping she was joking and would affirm as much.

"No, you're not coming with. EDI: code Garrus in, as of time stated, I'm leaving him in command until I return. Spectre authorization." Might as well make it official, since the only Alliance XO she could think of was Vega…and she had reservations about leaving him in charge. It was nothing against Vega, no slight on his skills, it was simply that innate sense of the fitness of things telling her 'don't do it.' He wasn't quite ready. Garrus, on the other hand, was familiar to the crew, and known to be her second. Leaving him in charge would probably be less surprising, less unsettling, than pulling a 'new guy' from out of nowhere.

"You're serious," Garrus blinked.

"Yes."

"Where're you going?"

"Out of the system," she replied evasively.

"Like that, huh?" Garrus sighed, giving her a deprecating look that, nevertheless, seemed to understand she was tightlipped for more reasons than being mysterious.

"Afraid so. I'll tell you about it when I get back," she promised.

"Back?" Alenko's voice cut into the conversation, not accusing, merely surprised.

"Solo road trip," Garrus responded unhelpfully as Shepard said 'I've got something I need to do.' Shepard gave Garrus a baleful look which he met with a cheeky smile.

"I really hate you," she declared frankly.

"Then I'd better go scope out my temporary quarters before you relieve me of command," Garrus responded, snickering as he got to his feet and ambled off.

"Hey, hey! Don't put your boots on that couch!" Shepard called after him, thoroughly amused, but trying not to show it.

"Solo road trip?" Alenko repeated once Garrus was gone and Shepard continued checking her equipment. Better to err on the side of overkill; she'd been to Omega before. It couldn't possibly be better with Cerberus in charge.

"I should be back in a few days."

"Can you say where you're going?"

"I could, but I won't. So if anyone asks you can honestly say you don't know." She got the memo that morning: Martin Burns had replaced Donnel Udina. She remembered Burns favorably. Hopefully, he would do well. She didn't want to see anyone do worse than Udina—the ass.

"I appreciate the thought, but won't our bosses be a little…irritated…?" Alenko sat down on the bench. He kept his tone light, which told her this was less a reminder that she was now part of a stratified organization and more than he was simply being clumsy in his communication attempts.

She wanted to sigh, wearily. Apparently, they were fine when one of them was strapped to a hospital bed by red tape, or when it was television and junk food on a couch. It was a little different _now_ , when things were uncertain and unsettled…and when they were both working."Probably, but it's their mandate I'm carrying out."

"In that case, good luck."

Shepard gave him a wolfish smile and promptly quoted Grunt, "I don't need luck. I've got ammo."

"There's the Shepard we all know and love. Shoot it up, blow it up, and move on to the next one. Any particular reason it's a solo road trip?"

He almost caught her flat-footed with the question. Almost. "My contact finds some of the company I keep…objectionable."

" _Objectionable_?" Clearly he couldn't see who on this crew was 'objectionable.' "Now I'm _really_ curious."

Shepard smirked as if to say that had been her intention.

"I'll get the full story out of you later."

"What if I decide it's classified?" Shepard asked, getting to her feet.

Alenko smirked back at her, "I'll bribe you with ribs."

"Hmm…"

"And Astro-Fizz."

"See? You're already well on your way to being a grade-A Spectre: you're already suborning your colleagues so they spill all the dirty little secrets."

Alenko shrugged as if to say he was a fast learner.


	336. New Management

Martin Burns didn't quite know what to think as he looked around his new office. With Udina dead, he found himself booted up the chain of command to land squarely in the man's abruptly vacated Council seat. Being informed of his change of station had been a step up from a sticky note: he'd received a datapad with a very official document, signed and countersigned by the remaining Council members confirming his appointment and letting him know he started immediately, and when the next Council session was.

It made him feel a bit like an omnitool mod, something to be plugged in and removed at whim with little thought and even less effort. He had to smile at the thought. Maybe, in a war like the one raging beyond the Citadel, that wasn't a bad attitude to have: leaders fall, new ones are installed. No muss, no fuss.

It was more than he ever expected, and the thought that _he_ was now the Human Councilor, that _his_ voice was to be regarded as the voice of humanity…

His stomach clenched. If he kept thinking about that, he was going to throw up from sheer nerves. He might still do it. The need to vomit seemed to come and go…

At one point in his life, he would have rubbed his hands together at having achieved so much, enough to satisfy even his ambition during that period. However, that time was before he found himself a hostage, before being deftly rescued by his two human Spectres—back before they were Spectres. And it helped ease his nerves to have their examples to look to: they served others. The Alliance. Those who depended on the Alliance. Those who depended on Spectres to keep the peace.

It was an attitude Donnel Udina certainly never understood: that he served the people he represented, not the other way around. Oh, he'd done what he could to advance humanity's interests…but their interests as _he_ understood them, or wanted them to be.

It was a trap Burns knew he could fall into, himself, even with the best of intentions. There was an easy fix for this gap in understanding, however: listen to his Spectres. Shepard was on the front line of this war, she saw the people, the soldiers, the allies, the enemies. She _knew_ them in a way he did not and probably never could. As to Alenko, no more of this chaining the man to the Councilor's desk all day, like a bad-mannered puppy. He was a Spectre. He had a job to do. He should be out there doing it.

Yes, he would need to listen to his Spectres. Some might argue that Shepard already had too much clout, too many people listening to her every word…but Shepard was a woman of principle, she wasn't ambitious, and probably didn't think in those terms. She had a galaxy to defend, and defend it she would. She'd done it with few allies before; now, she was simply doing it with more. It was about time she had the full support of her species' Ambassador.

The question was how to convey this in a way that wouldn't be met with immediate suspicion and a disingenuous, estranging smile of veiled disbelief. Maybe that was one of Alenko's previously unknown uses: a kind of decoder or advisor on how best to get along with Shepard.

Well, there was a step to take before worrying about all that. It was as simple as asking the two Spectres to join him for a meeting. A kind of meet-and-greet, but also a strategy discussion. Things he needed to know before he could start handling the galactic ball with competence. Maybe it would even help his cause, to have gone out of his way to listen, to hear, what his boots on the ground were saying.

He pressed the intercom to the secretary outside, a pretty human woman whose shrewd eyes belied her otherwise vacant expression—the expression of someone who had learned the secret of 'grin and bear it.' "Ms. Scott. I would like you to find out if Spectres Shepard and Alenko are available for a meeting this evening. If so, please find out when it is convenient and book us a table at…" He paused, going over all the places he'd ever had a dinner meeting on the Citadel and trying to decide which one would be most appropriate. He didn't want this meeting complicated, for instance, because the caviar cost as much as a midline skycar. Also, caviar was something of an acquired taste, and he supposed neither marine would have acquired it. "Foscarelli's."

" _Of course, Councilor. I'll put the call through immediately._ "

Burns nodded, before reminding himself she couldn't see this. "Thank you, Ms. Scott."

"… _you're welcome, Councilor_."

He got the impression she didn't hear 'thank you' very often.

Burns looked around the office with a sigh, then walked over to the window overlooking the Presidium. To think that, not so long ago, the place had been a complete warzone.

" _Councilor Burns?_ "

"Yes, Ms. Scott?" he asked, hurrying back over to his desk.

" _Spectre Shepard says she is leaving for a mission tonight. She will clear her evening before departure, however, and make herself available. Spectre Alenko assures you he will be available…_ " she paused, then continued, " _I booked your table at Foscarelli's for eighteen-thirty._ "

"Thank you very much, Ms. Scott," Burns said, and meant it.

" _Of course, Councilor._ "

He wondered what Shepard could have lined up so fast that might take her off the Citadel…but he knew better than to ask. Not before she finished it, anyway. He had access to all his Spectres' reports, or the reports of any Spectre specifically tasked by his predecessor, or by the full Council. Shepard, as evidenced, was good about keeping up to date with her paperwork. She simply tended to wait until she had something concrete to say, and this seemed to be a trait shared by most Spectres.


	337. Councilor

To say Shepard was surprised to be summoned (along with now-fellow Spectre Kaidan Alenko) to meet with now-Councilor Burns at a restaurant would be inaccurate. She couldn't quite understand why he hadn't simply called them to his office, as soon as the Council could be got off the ship.

The Council's removal to a more appropriate location had been something she agreed with heartily: their presences upset her crew, and they had been bunking in poor Garrus' quarters. Well, perhaps she ought to be fair: Javik had apparently taken a great big metaphorical bite out of Quentius before Garrus diffused the situation.

With chaos still on the station, Shepard had found herself up to her elbows in helping C-Sec triage order of priority for major targets. Apparently Kolyat was helping C-Sec himself, because Bailey kept dropping her innocent little progress reports.

It had not surprised her that the Council was aboard the Normandy for less than twenty-four hours. They'd been removed only a few hours ago by several Spectres, all of whom Lysana authenticated. One still moving rather gingerly, appeared to be their original Spectre guardian, whom Alenko greeted gladly as Polonius.

So that was one problem solved. To her relief, Victus solved the problem of his presence on the ship—where she really didn't want him—with grace: as soon as the Council was gone, he, too, departed. With the turian-krogan alliance in place—so he said—there was no reason he couldn't do his job from the Citadel. It made what might otherwise be a parting on dubious terms a little more amiable. And, whatever ill-feeling she might still harbor, he had reiterated his promise that when the time came to push back, Earth would have his people's support…and his own.

He'd returned just long enough to leave a small, pyramidal candle at the memorial wall.

She pinched the bridge of her nose as she sat in the skycar. It was hard to be angry at Victus, considering what his bad decisions cost him personally. On the other hand, it was hard to sympathize too much. So it was best that he'd handled his own departure and in so doing kept things amiable.

Alenko had gone with the Council, as had Lysana, and she hadn't seen or heard from either, since. She glanced at the chrono on her omnitool. Eighteen twenty-two. And she had an appointment with Aria at twenty-three hundred.

With a sigh, Shepard shook her head. It had been stressful, having the Council onboard, wondering if they would alienate her crew, or if Javik would set a precedent or cause an interspecies incident. To his credit, the Prothean hadn't gone looking for a fight. Garrus had been amused: 'I think he's really starting to join the crew, Shepard. He's just letting us figure it out for ourselves, at our own slow sub-Prothean paces.'

She'd been alone long enough to appreciate this. So, with a smile, she climbed out of the cab, settling her cover onto her freshly-trimmed hair.

' _Normally I just buzz it all off, Shepard,_ ' Dr. Chakwas had remarked idly before doing her best to trim the locks back a little. ' _But for you,_ _I'll try to refrain from making this a hack job._ ' She'd succeeded, too.

Shepard had never heard of Foscarelli's—not surprising, since she didn't eat out on the Presidium often. It seemed a bit upscale, but not crazy glamorous.

"Ah, Captain Shepard," the host smiled pleasantly. "Councilor Burns and Major Alenko are already waiting for you."

Shepard glanced at her chrono: she was still five minutes early. It didn't surprise her that Alenko also hated to be late to be early…but she hadn't expected Burns to make sure he was here to accommodate this preference. "Thank you."

She followed the waiter that popped up from nowhere as he conducted her to the back of the dining room, where Alenko in his dress blues and Burns in a casual suit already sat. The third seat at the table, the empty one, had its back to the wall and commanded a good view of the room. She suspected Alenko suggested they let the N7 have the good chair. Goodness knew she hated the idea of having her back to the room at large. "Sorry I'm late," she said by way of greeting.

"Not at all," Burns answered quickly, getting to his feet, Alenko a split second behind—less because she was a lady, she thought idly, and more because she needed to shimmy past one of them to get to the other chair.

Or she _thought_ so, until Burns casually pulled the chair back for her as she stepped past Alenko. It wasn't something she was used to. Thankfully, his apparent gallantry didn't go any further. She wouldn't have known what to do with it.

Both men sat down, and Shepard—somewhat to her chagrin—couldn't help noticing that Alenko filled out his dress blues even better now than the first time she saw him in them. She couldn't quite stop the wistful thought that she wouldn't be helping him out of them later…

…but she did stop it from going any further. They were just friends. She wasn't sure she was ready to try anything more…although something in the back of her mind hissed as if calling her on her own bullshit.

"You two look so serious," Burns chuckled, picking up his menu. "I did think a meeting in a setting like this would be a little less stressful. Less like being called up in front of the principal."

"So this is a business meeting?" Shepard asked, not touching her own menu.

Burns looked up from his. "Oh, decidedly, it's business. But there's no reason it can't be in the vein of colleagues chatting over supper, either. Let's order first, then we'll talk seriously."

It was clear he was trying very hard not to seem too friendly…but at the same time didn't want to encourage the guarded neutrality necessary with his predecessor.


	338. Dinner

Alenko regarded Shepard thoughtfully. Someone had trimmed her hair back a little, and her dress blues seemed to accentuate her lean, sleek lines—not unlike the sleek swooping curves of her ship. If he was uneasy at this summons by the new human Councilor, the company went some way towards calming his nerves.

"I'll be completely candid with you both," Burns said, looking from Shepard to Alenko and back, once the waiter had taken their orders and supplied them all with drinks. "I never expected to become humanity's Councilor. In fact, I never expected to become ambassador, even. But I am. And, unlike my predecessor, I've experienced firsthand the kind of work you both do—the quality, I mean." He took a sip of his wine before continuing. "I'm not a soldier, and I have no desire to pretend to be one. That is why I choose to rely on your assessments of the general situation: you are soldiers, and you do know what is most needed from the leadership." He set his glass down. "I'm proposing a partnership, which I know is not what you had with my predecessor. Help me understand the things I need to understand in order to make the policies that are needed, and I will ensure you have my full support."

Shepard sipped her sparkling apple juice slowly. "You've been given copies of my mission write-ups?" she asked.

"I have," Burns answered. "And I've spent all day reading through them. I'll spend the rest of the night doing so, too—rest assured, Shepard, if you submitted it, by tomorrow night I'll have read it with due attention."

"The biggest problem we have right now is that the Council doesn't seem to be doing anything—whether because they are incapable or lack the capacity," Shepard sighed. "If anything gets done, it's species leadership, or offshoots, who are doing it."

Burns nodded. "Things do seem rather fragmented."

"I don't know what can be done about that," Shepard continued. "All I know is that Reapers can't be reasoned or negotiated with. They'll lie to you, tell you they want to talk…"

"And then Indoctrinate you, and ship you back out," Alenko finished. "It's a convenient kind of lie. People want to think this can be stopped just by talking, and they'll be angry if the leaderships won't try."

Shepard nodded, grimly.

"Alright," Burns nodded. "What else?"

"Cerberus. It's our belief—my crew's and my belief—that the Illusive Man, Cerberus' leader, has been Indoctrinated."

"It's that bad?" Alenko broke in.

"Yeah. We're pretty sure he is, even if he's convinced he isn't," she answered, sipping her juice as if just thinking about the Illusive Man left a sour taste in her mouth. "Which makes him even more dangerous: he's not compromised to the point that he can't function independently, but he's serving their agenda. No question."

Alenko exhaled slowly. Well…that sucked.

"And do you have any advice for dealing with the krogan? Apparently, the Clan Chief is leaving Tuchanka to come to the Citadel. I got the memo just before I left to come here."

Shepard pondered. "Wrex is…he's a progressive thinker. He wants what's best for his people, and knows that the old way isn't it. But he's still krogan, so he'll push to see who takes it and who pushes back."

Alenko nodded agreement. "He'll troll you if he thinks he can."

Shepard chuckled at this. "He will," she agreed. "And even when he can't, he might try on the off-chance of getting under your skin. Best thing you can do is give him what he wants: a fight."

Was it just him, or did Shepard give him a look? As if she meant this advice for Alenko as well as for Burns?

"I'll bear that in mind," Burns declared uneasily into the silence.

"Wrex knows he can't beat on you," Shepard put in. "So don't let him push you around."

Alenko found himself grinning.

"You might as well know, I was adopted into his Clan a few days ago," Shepard continued.

" _Adopted_?" Alenko asked, glad he hadn't got his glass to his lips before Shepard dropped that bombshell. "Wrex _adopted_ you?" Suddenly…any hope of mending fences with her grew extremely complicated. To say Wrex had never approved of him would be a good way to phrase it.

Wrex, simply put, didn't think he, Alenko, was good enough for Shepard. And if Wrex knew about Horizon and how it went…well. The next time he saw the krogan, Alenko made a mental note to keep his barrier up, in case Wrex tried to take a swing at him under the guise of 'pissed off brother.'

Shepard didn't seem to notice his sudden unease. "Yes. As his clan-sister, I hold legal position with the krogan," Shepard answered. "I can own property on Tuchanka, can serve in the army, and can accept petitions for those wishing to serve as my _krantt_ —that is, those who wish to serve under me."

Burns, however, had stopped looking to uneasy. "That is _fascinating_ …I didn't think the krogan adopted aliens."

"They don't. But after my part in championing a cure for the genophage, it was a politic thing to do."

"Because if this Wrex falls short in communicating with the wider galaxy…he can call you in to help," Burns concluded. "Clever fellow. When in doubt, call on a specialist."

"When in over his head," Shepard corrected. "Wrex is pretty self-reliant. And he'll enjoy busting the Council's chops whenever he can get away with it."

Burns began to smile as if suddenly challenged. "I think I can handle him."

"Here's hoping," Shepard answered amiably. "What else do you need to know, Councilor?"

"Please, just Burns. Or even Martin, if you like," Burns responded. "To be honest, at this point I've got so much to chew on, I probably would start missing finer details. So, I think perhaps we should simply enjoy our dinner." His smile indicated this was a suggestion, not a requirement.


	339. Cab Ride

It wasn't what Alenko thought of when he thought of dinner with Shepard…but since it had actually been dinner with Burns that could be forgiven. At the very least, he hadn't shoved his foot in his mouth. Not that he'd spoken much: Burns had taken full advantage of the opportunity to pick Shepard's brain, which meant she did most of the talking. About the Reapers. About Cerberus. It wasn't pleasant dinner conversation, but it was obvious to Alenko, who knew her, that Shepard was glad _someone_ in a position of authority was not only reading her reports, but asking questions.

He believed Burns when the Councilor said that by tomorrow, he would be acquainted with every report Shepard ever filed. From a few chance comments, the reading was stimulating.

At twenty-one thirty—with the dining room filling with the night shift's 'lunch' break crowd—Shepard excused herself.

Alenko stayed where he was as she strode off briskly.

Burns suddenly chuckled. "If you need to speak with her, I'd do it now." His tone said 'before she ships out.' "We can continue this discussion tomorrow morning. Around nine?"

"Nine. I'll be there." What, exactly, Burns wanted to talk to him about, Alenko didn't know, but he didn't care, either. He stopped after taking two steps away from the table.

"Go on," Burns prompted. "I'll be fine on my own."

Part of Alenko, the dutiful, conscientious part, wanted to argue…but he put it aside and hurried out after Shepard, hoping she hadn't already climbed into a cab and been whisked off. If she was already in transit, she'd be off to meet her next operation before he arrived at the Normandy.

For once, luck favored Alenko. "Shepard!"

Shepard, on the verge of climbing into a CRT vehicle, stopped. "Yeah?" she hollered back.

He didn't answer immediately, but closed the distance. "I was wondering…could we, uh, share the cab?"

Shepard's eyes narrowed a fraction, something in her posture stiffening. "…are we going the same direction?"

"I was hoping we might…talk…" he knew when he said it was the wrong thing.

Her expression became fixed, and he could see it like it was a thought balloon over her head. 'Oh, stars. He wants to talk.' "Sure. Why not?" But she was bracing for something unpleasant.

Alenko had to resist slouching beside her, wincing at his own poorly-chosen words. Yes, when he prefaced something 'we need to talk' it usually didn't go well. He waited until the cab took off, or would have, had Shepard not anticipated him.

"Look. I don't want to talk about the fact that we had each other on business ends of firearms earlier, okay?" She didn't sound angry, just firm. The way she wrapped her arms around her middle suggested she was trying to protect herself.

Well…he didn't _want_ to talk about it, either. "Not my favorite topic, either," he agreed.

"And I'm not ready to talk about Thane. Or Mordin."

He had only a vague notion who Mordin was, and suspected she mentioned him out of habit—she didn't want to be prodded by anyone about dead comrades. "Okay."

"So, what else is there to talk about?" Again, not hostile, but brisk.

Well, he couldn't just cut right to telling her she looked great. "I just…wanted to apologize."

"Alenko—" she sighed, wincing.

"I didn't mean to leave you hanging as long as I did," he forged on. "I _knew_ you wouldn't have anything to do with all that bullshit…I just needed a couple seconds to think it through. I just didn't want you thinking I doubted you. I just needed to see how the logic tallied."

Shepard sighed again, running a hand through her hair. Her eyes suddenly looked tired, but a faint smile lifted one corner of a mouth no longer quirked by a scar. "You really knew I had nothing to do with that?"

"Shepard," he said mock-sternly. "If you were going to murder the Council and take over the Citadel, you'd have been a lot more successful. And you wouldn't have hesitated to just start shooting if someone got in your way."

Shepard closed her eyes, leaving Alenko wincing at the way levity kicked something sore.

"Sorry, that came out wrong."

"No, it's okay." Shepard swallowed, then opened her eyes. When she spoke, it seemed to cost her something, and she had trouble meeting his eyes. "I'm glad I didn't have to hurt you."

Which told him plainly that she probably wouldn't have shot to kill if he hadn't backed down. He wondered, idly, what he would have done if she'd winged him to get to Udina. "You're right. Let's not talk about this."

She nodded gratefully. "So, if this is your idea of walking a girl home, Mama Alenko is to be congratulated."

Alenko laughed, but couldn't quite stoop the lance of pain through his heart that made his eyes sting. "She would _love_ to hear you call her that."

"…she's still on Earth, isn't she?" Shepard asked.

"Yeah."

Shepard closed her eyes.

He could see she was about to apologize. "Hey." He took her shoulder in one hand. "You told me to get them out, and I tried. They just…couldn't stay off-world indefinitely. You did everything that you could, and…I'm grateful."

She nodded, lips pursing with distress.

Hesitantly, but remembering her remark after having announced Thane's death, Alenko let go of her shoulder and draped his arm gently around her.

Shepard stiffened momentarily, then her posture softened. With a wry laugh, she reached up one hand to tangle her fingers with his own. "You knew Thane too. How're you holding up?"

Alenko knew what Thane wanted from him: for him to work his way back into Shepard's good graces, and from that position, to love her as fiercely and as much as she deserved. To be the strength she could rely on when hers ran short.

Because that was how Thane loved Shepard: he wanted to see her flourish, thrive, and be happy.


	340. Change

Alenko arrived at Burns' office at precisely zero nine hundred. "Ah, Alenko," Burns looked up from whatever he was working on and waved him in and into the nearest chair. "Please, make yourself comfortable. There's coffee," he gestured vaguely to the table with a stay-hot carafe and mugs on it.

"Thank you, sir." Alenko poured himself a cup, then sat down.

"I'm sorry dinner conversation ended up edging you out last night."

"It was a business meeting, and Shepard's the person to talk to if you want to know about the front lines." He wondered where she was now, what she was doing.

He'd done some very serious thinking the night before, mostly about what he wanted to do, now that it didn't look like he was going to stay tethered to the Human Councilor's desk all day. On the one hand, he didn't doubt that the Alliance could make use of him, the way they did of Shepard.

On the other hand…he remembered Thane. He knew Thane would have encouraged him to seek a posting on the Normandy. Even if he wasn't among Shepard's confidantes anymore, he might work his way back to that. More than that, they'd worked well together in the past…

…and more than that, though he couldn't very well admit it to anyone, Alenko didn't want to lose track of her in all this chaos. He'd lost her once, and it nearly broke him. He didn't think he could handle being kept at a distance, ineffective, unable to personally ensure, as far as he was able, that she was alright and that she stayed that way.

The question was how to sell two Spectres on the same posting. He didn't think he could get any Councilor to agree…except maybe Burns, who seemed to realize that, as the tip of the spear, Shepard was overworked. Burns certainly seemed sympathetic, seemed to want to do whatever bureaucracy and a politician could to make sure she had the support she needed. If any Councilor would accept giving her an extra pair of hands, someone who could help handling things, whether they were Spectre matters or Alliance matters, it would be Burns.

"And that's why I'm picking your brain today, when I'm not reading up on Shepard's reports," Burns continued cheerfully. "I have to say, she's quite meticulous. Not a single bit of shade cast at the Council or the Alliance while she was submitting reports on Cerberus letterhead."

Alenko smiled wryly. "That's Shepard. She's a professional to the core."

Burns nodded. "So, you were there. She's told me what she needs. The big stuff. What does she need that she might not mention?"

Alenko blinked. "I don't quite follow, sir."

Burns frowned, evidently sifting his words. "Shepard thinks in broad strokes, actionable items of immediate importance. How to fight Reapers. How to fight Cerberus. How they're likely to fight us. What I'm asking is…" he fumbled, but Alenko thought he was starting to see.

"You mean, like you might ask her crew if they have the support they need to support her mission?" he asked gently.

"Yes," Burns answered firmly. "I know there's a war on. But I also know that morale is important. And while it's indecent to play favorites, Shepard has been on the front line of this war for a very long time. I don't want her tanking out because it's convenient to people to forget that this started with a knock to the head on Eden Prime, nearly four years ago."

And for the two years she'd been operational, she'd packed a lot of crazy-ass shit in, Alenko finished mentally. "Well, sir. I'd say you'd need to ask her crew. She's got a way of winning loyalty—her crew knows she's got their backs, so they do whatever they can to make sure they have hers. They might not trust you because of your position…"

Burns waved the slightly apologetic tone away. "Understandable, considering my predecessor."

"…but if they thought you were in earnest about supporting them so they can support her, I think they wouldn't tell you to go pound sand. Don't talk just to her ground team, though. Talk to whoever's running the galley, or engineering."

Burns nodded. "Can you arrange it? Today?"

Alenko blinked, unused to such decisiveness in a politician. Then again, he amended, Burns wasn't the usual Citadel politician. "…I could talk to her second in command. We served together."

"Would you? If Shepard is going to be absent, that might be the best time to do this. I don't want her to think I'm poking about in her affairs. I just want to help."

"No, no, I understand," Alenko answered. "I'll call him now, if you'd like."

"Please." With that, Burns pulled a datapad over and began reading.

Alenko withdrew to the office's overlook of the Presidium.

" _This is the Normandy,_ " the neutral, female voice of the ship's VI declared.

"Hello, EDI. This is Spectre Alenko. Is Garrus Vakarian available?" It felt more professional to call through the ship than to just ping Garrus' omnitool.

" _One moment._ "

" _Alenko? What's up?_ " Garrus asked, sounding surprised to hear from him.

"You know how Shepard's been fighting the Council these past few years?"

The turian gave a chuffing sound.

"Well, Burns wants to be part of the solution, there. He wants to talk to the crew, find out what he can do to help with morale and the little things that they need to support Shepard's mission. Can we arrange something like that?"

Garrus considered. " _I take it you'll be escorting him?_ "

"Probably."

He could hear Garrus kicking around his options. " _What do you think about him?_ "

Alenko glanced at Burns, who seemed genuinely trying not to eavesdrop. "I think it's about time the Council backed her like they should. He's willing to try."

" _Bring him down around lunchtime. As long as he stays with you, he can run his little poll from the mess desk._ "

"Thanks, Garrus."

" _See you soon._ " 

-J-

Author's Note: My timeline may vary a little from canon because I didn't cram either of the previous works into a couple weeks or a couple months. Also, I know some of you are really keyed up for Omega, but I want to get a few things on the Citadel straightened out. I didn't think the arc read smoothly with the next few chapters scattered about, rather than being kept together.


	341. Morale

Martin Burns was sure a few rules were being bent to allow him aboard the _Normandy_. Although a Spectre's vessel, it still belonged to the Alliance, and was therefore considered a fairly classified piece of hardware. He was grateful Shepard's second in command—Garrus Vakarian, at whose elbow hovered a marine somewhat younger than Shepard who seemed to be there to back him up as an Alliance authority figure—was amiable.

Greeted cordially by the turian—and introduced to Lt. Vega, Shepard's protégé—Burns and the silent Alenko had been immediately escorted through the CIC to the mess deck, and asked to remain there for the duration of the visit. The crew was aware they was there, and why, and would speak to them as it was convenient.

Naturally, Burns thanked Garrus, and settled at one of the mess tables near the galley, to observe as a young woman (whose nametag read Palmer) proceeded to make lunch. He was very aware that she had only half her attention on the meal she was making—which, although she had to do some prep work, was clearly governed by some kind of rationing of ingredients—and half on him.

Well, he could only imagine what kind of attitude the Normandy's crew might hold for the Council. Shepard might not air her own views of the Council's deficiencies to her subordinates, but she probably wouldn't censor her crew unless it was something too egregious to ignore. Then, he imagined, she'd crack the whip.

At that moment, distraction appeared in the person of a grey-haired, formidable looking woman who introduced herself as Dr. Karin Chakwas and gave Alenko the polite greeting of someone who already knew him.

Pleasantries attended, she handed Burns a datapad with a list on it, mostly things he didn't understand but which, being specialized items, Dr. Chakwas had written out in minute detail. He could probably ask his secretary buy the items, as long as she read the entries on the list from the first letter to the last period, the doctor would get what she needed. Dr. Chakwas did not elaborate on why she wanted anything on the list, merely prefaced that some of the crew had unique medical considerations, and while she could handle almost anything, it was better to be safe than sorry.

She was very brisk and professional, this doctor. Not someone he would want to cross, either. He also knew she was waiting for him to ask her questions. Perhaps he even surprised her by not doing so, merely assuring her that he would do what he could.

Dr. Chakwas was succeeded by Engineer Adams who, although a little less austere, gave the impression of not really wanting to interface with a member of the Council. Usually, that was Shepard's job. He, too, had a list, but unlike Dr. Chakwas', Burns had to make annotations of his own in order to be sure he understood what the engineer needed.

Unlike Dr. Chakwas, Adams was amenable to chatting—mostly to convey he had been the Chief Engineer on the original _Normandy_ , and that he had a firm hold on its successor…and his little battalion of grease monkeys.

The conversation paused when Palmer came and stood beside the table, looking thoughtful. "Are you staying for lunch, Councilor? Spectre?" she asked, her big eyes fixed on Burns' nose—less, he thought, because there was a problem with his nose and more because she didn't want to look him in the eye. Come to think of it, he'd noticed Shepard and Alenko both do something similar. It must be a military thing.

"Is that permissible?" he asked.

Palmer's eyes flicked to his, as if the question surprised her. "We're one short with the Captain gone. There's no reason anyone should complain," she answered.

"Then I'd very much like to, if it's no trouble to you."

She didn't smile at the courtesy, but a wry twist distorted the line of her mouth. "If you're really interested in morale, it should be enlightening."

It was. He saw immediately, once the plate of 'chili' arrived before him, what Palmer was getting it. It was edible, certainly. Definitely a step up from the food served in public schools and other institution-type venues. But eating it three times a day…and it had an odd flavor, something he'd never encountered but which was probably definable as 'the taste of rations.'

He knew Palmer would come talk to him again, probably after she finished serving the meal and then cleaning up.

He wasn't wrong. As soon as the last dish was in to wash, she came and sat down across from him. "Well, what did you think, sir?" she asked simply.

"I think I see your point," Burns answered. "Recommendations?"

"Fancy ingredients for three meals a day is asking too much, the situation being what it is," Palmer answered slowly. "But I think one proper meal a day, a real meal with real ingredients, would go a long way to boosting morale. Especially when you come back to the ship after having been eating field rations for a week." Palmer grimaced. "No amount of rosemary is going to make _those_ any better."

Burns nodded. "Can you come up with a schedule? Something predictable, so supplies could be arranged on short notice? The _Normandy_ is a little sporadic about when she's in dock."

"Sure. I'd need a couple hours to think about it…"

"You can message me directly, Ms. Palmer."

"Sergeant Palmer," she corrected, but in the polite way of someone who didn't expect him to have known better.

"Sergeant Palmer."

Palmer accepted the short message to which she could reply with the necessary information. When she got up to return to her duties, she gave him a genuine smile. "I think you knew the Captain sometime before."

She clearly didn't know how, but there was something in the statement, like a door being propped open. He knew what to say without thinking. "Shepard saved my life."


	342. Request

Alenko had to smile, but only to himself. If Burns could have picked the one thing to say that would open the maximum number of closed doors, it was to tell the crew that Shepard had saved his life. He wouldn't go so far as to say it got Burns 'in' with the crew—not as if he'd been a member himself—but it did thaw some of the frostiness, alleviate the cordiality masking the 'what's he doing, slumming around here?' curiosity.

It showed how fast gossip spread, because the afternoon was full of meet and greet. Not necessarily people with lists or requests, but people who would come over to say hello, introduce themselves—not because Burns was a Councilor, but because his connection to Shepard brought him closer to the crew than any Councilor now or ever.

It was an opportunity for Alenko, too, to get an idea of the kinds of people backing Shepard up. Most of them indicated what their job was. Even the four person crew who handled cleaning and janitorial maintenance sounded proud of what they did. It wasn't glamorous, but it meant the ground team never got caught scrubbing latrines the day they got back from being hip deep in some kind of trouble or foul environment.

Most of them, and this seemed to intrigue Burns, were never actually slated to be on a frontline warship—they'd simply been on the _Normandy_ when it escaped Earth, and essentially been drafted for frontline service. No one complained about this.

For Campbell and Westmoreland, who were part of the shipside security team, the situations were sometimes scary…but no one would ever say that military life wasn't living up to the recruitment posters.

It warmed his soul to listen to the crew talk about Shepard, particularly because it became clear that most of them harbored a certain attitude of protectiveness towards her. She kept them as safe as possible, given any circumstances that arose; she made time for them, for their troubles when those troubles got too heavy. And, in return, they did what they could to ensure that the Normandy was a safe haven—or as close to it as possible—where she could catch her breath or rest at her ease. They took pride in being able to make it so.

Shepard had a real gift, Alenko mused, for inspiring loyalty. But unless one looked outside the ground team, one never really appreciated how widespread that gift's effects really were.

You could tell the crew who had served with Shepard before, Alenko thought wryly. Donnelly and Daniels both gave him the kind of look that suggests a preconceived distaste, just enough to let him know that they hadn't forgiven him for Horizon—whatever they actually knew about it, because he was sure Shepard would _never_ admit it was one of the galaxy's worst breakups.

Donnelly was chatty, while Daniels tended to tap the brakes or rein him in. Thus, it wasn't hard to get the former talking. And talk he did—little of it of much substance.

Liara arrived just as Burns suggested it might be time to get going. "I have a request, Councilor. I'd like you to ask Admiral Hackett if he can get a personnel file for Shepard. One Leng, Kai."

Burns' eyebrows rose.

Alenko's stomach twisted.

"He's the man who murdered our friend Thane, you see," Liara continued, though she eyed both men's reactions with attention. "And, as he's working with Cerberus, I can't imagine Shepard won't run into him again. It would be nice if a fellow who thinks he's so mysterious, all smoke and mirrors, were to find out that Shepard is _quite_ familiar with his background, at the very least."

Something about Liara's smile left Alenko uneasy, as if she was asking merely for form's sake. As if she didn't really _need_ to ask.

"Of course, I'll see what I can do," Burns answered.

Whether or not Hackett would release the files at Burns' request was an item of speculation. If Shepard asked, she might just get them. But Shepard wasn't here, Alenko thought. She was somewhere in the war-torn galaxy without her ground crew, or her support crew, doing who knew what. He didn't like not knowing.

Burns didn't speak to him until they were in the cab back to the Councilor's office. "Alenko, I wonder if you might entertain the idea of applying to join Shepard's crew."

Well…it saved him from having to ask. "Sir?"

Burns considered, weighing his words. "I think she might benefit from having extra hands. And while every Spectre is now an extremely valuable asset, no one would argue if the tradition of newer Spectres working with more experienced ones was observed."

Perfectly plausible.

"I've read her reports, and I've read between the lines talking with her and her crew. She's got things under control now, but if the situation intensifies—and I'm certain it will—she might be grateful for someone to help take up the slack. And, if I'm perfectly honest…" Burns didn't look certain he wanted to admit this next part, which left Alenko deeply uneasy. "I don't want you to think I'm trying to spy on her, or anything. But…well. If she was burning out, say, I wouldn't find out about it until after the fact. Once nothing can be done."

It was a legitimate concern. "You want me to tell you if she's not fit for duty?"

" _No_. I want you to tell me when I—or, rather, Adm. Hackett—need to declare the _Normandy_ in need of maintenance so she'll have no _choice_ but to take two weeks on the beach."

It _would_ take some kind of enforcement to get Shepard to take a break like that.

"I'm asking you because I can see that you two are friends. You'll tell me what I need to know, without violating anyone's trust," Burns concluded.

Alenko was willing to try…but the question was whether Shepard would agree.


	343. Black Op

Councilor Esheel took a slow breath as she examined her desk, considering the repercussions of the Cerberus Coup. Of the twelve Spectres on-station—not counting Shepard—Cerberus killed six. Half of them! It wasn't hard to figure out how: Udina had simply helped arrange tactical strikes against the Spectres before the real chaos began, whittling down their numbers.

The damages to property could be fixed, non-personnel losses could be recouped. But six Spectres having been _assassinated_? It was unthinkable. The last major loss of Spectres had been nearly two hundred years ago—a group of four working together to destabilize a growing undesirable influence encroaching on Council space had somehow been rattled. All four died, picked off one by one, and while no one beyond the Council had ever confirmed that they were Spectres…many had suspected.

In spite of having scanned Shepard's massive ream of reports, the ones dealing with Cerberus in particular, Esheel realized she hadn't appreciated the reach, the volume of assets at the Illusive Man's command. And part of her suspected that this coup, while it failed, had had secondary or even tertiary motives.

Shepard was supposed to be giving the matter some thought. She'd met the man, more or less, and had more contact with him than most. If anyone could theorize about his motives, aims, and additional goals, if anyone could make sense out of this chaos, it was her.

But Shepard was apparently no longer on station, even if her ship was. No one saw her leave, she hadn't cleared herself out through C-Sec. She'd simply disappeared, leaving her turian cohort in charge until she came back. And he either didn't know or wouldn't tell where she was.

Esheel sighed. What he didn't know, he couldn't be compelled to tell sounded like a line Shepard might take, especially if she thought she was doing something less than savory.

The doors to Esheel's office hissed open to reveal Spectre Lysana Kerrina. The woman smiled broadly, as she always did, sauntering into the room with a perkiness that belied the cold, hard operative beneath. "Councilor."

"Lysana." This was it. The moment Esheel had not looked forward to, but which she knew she couldn't avoid. "Sit down."

The asari did so, managing to plop gracefully into the chair. "What can I do for you, Councilor?" She knew she was here for orders, then.

Esheel waved her omnitool, and the vidscreen on the wall lit up, revealing Dalatrass Linron addressing the rest of the _Dalatrassi_ , the Salarian Union's leadership.

Lysana cocked her head as she listened to the ranting speech, experienced eyes taking in every motion, every _breath_. "She's a handful," was all the asari said, once the clip ended.

"I received a letter this morning from the _Dalatrassi_ ," Esheel declared somberly. "Our military is threatening to break off if appropriate action is not permitted."

"Surely the _Dalatrassi_ are capable of curbing one overly-loud representative." Although spoken pertly, Esheel knew there was nothing of the kind in the words.

"In the normal way of things, yes. But when one uses a cure for the genophage as one's foundation, one finds supporters. Shepard's decisions on Tuchanka are extremely unpopular."

"No offense to anyone, but Shepard's getting shit done. Maybe that should be considered before people start ragging on her."

"You like her."

Lysana smiled, and it was a mature woman's smile compared to the brightly disarming grin she'd worn earlier. "I met her years before she became a Spectre. I even had a bet on her, that she'd come up for candidacy eventually. She had something, that indefinable something that Anderson never quite had. That thing that separates a Spectre from a _good_ Spectre."

Esheel nodded. "Well, we're not here about Shepard. We're here about Linron."

"What do you want me to do about it?" But Lysana leaned forward, blue eyes fixed intently on Esheel's face, waiting.

Esheel poured herself a glass of water, apprehension making her skin feel papery. "Fix the problem. Discretely."

One corner of Lysana's mouth quirked. "How permanent a fix?"

"I don't want this to come back to bite anyone. So, a lasting solution." She had never given an assassination order, but she knew if she didn't do it, Irissa might. Militaries going rogue were not something anyone on the Citadel wanted to see. And then one got into arguments that only a species' Councilor (if they had one) had the right to order assassinations within their own species' leadership. Anything else was just outsiders interfering, overstepping their bounds. They didn't need that kind of argument just now.

Arguably, she should have used a salarian Spectre…but for this, Esheel wanted a few centuries of job experience. Someone who had done things like this before over the course of decades. Someone who could be relied upon to get out as discreetly as she got in.

"I've heard Sur'kesh is lovely this time of year," Lysana beamed, her dapper persona firmly back in place.

"Yes, it is," Esheel agreed, uncomfortable with what she'd just done.

"Relax, Councilor," Lysana grinned as she pushed herself out of the chair. "This isn't by first biotiball game. And I'll bet you anything a couple of the _Dalatrassi_ are wondering if this isn't the way to go. We're just saving them a little trouble. Anything else?"

"No, thank you. That's all."

Lysana nodded politely, then swung out of the room.

Esheel exhaled long and slow, then poured herself another glass of water. Hopefully, Lysana would have a nice, comfortable story manufactured for the investigation teams to find. Something that wouldn't point to the fact that Linron had been killed because she was more trouble than she was worth. Because using the proper channels to remove her would have taken too long…if they worked at all.

Esheel never thought she would see such a schism among her own people: the military pulling one way, everyone else pulling the other. It was a frightening prospect, and one she didn't know what to do with.


	344. Megalomaniac

"Captain?" the call was followed by a series of hard knocks on the door of the XO's quarters.

"Yeah?" Shepard asked groggily. Sleep proved elusive, but she'd rested to some degree and a little was better than none at all. "Enter."

The door slid open allowing Korvus—the turian assigned to stand outside her door, a small reassurance on a ship full of batarians—a clear line of sight. "Aria wants you on deck. It's time."

Shepard was off the bed in a flash. Her loadout secure, she tucked her helmet under her arm and was on deck in minutes with no signs of residual weariness.

"Good response time," Aria noted dryly, beckoning in Shepard to come stand by the command hub.

"Thanks." The faint sense of stopped motion, a sense most space-farers learned to block out.

"Head for the command ship," Aria ordered as Shepard got to her feet. "Put them on speaker," Aria glanced at Shepard. ' _See how easy I'm making this for you?'_

" _This is Omega flight control:_ _Cruiser. I don't have you on the flight plan. Identify yourself."_

One of the bartarians gave a thumbs-up.

"This is Captain Lentz," a recording announced. "Run voice recognition alpha tango zed. We took damage. Seeking repairs."

" _Confirmed, Captain. Hold for approach authorization._ "

"That's it," Aria breathed, "nice and slow."

Shepard gritted her teeth to avoid recommending patience. The look on Aria's face, the way the asari's fingers blanched as she clenched them on the headrest of Bray's seat, all suggested that Aria was ready to jump the gun.

"Fire!"

It was a little earlier than Shepard would have done it, but not as premature as she feared.

"Signal the fleet! Take us in."

Forget Queen of Omega; Aria had a very good Pirate Queen thing going. Shepard had to admit it.

"We're being hailed," Bray announced suddenly. "It's the General."

"I'd like to meet him before I'm on his station," Shepard declared.

" _My_ station."

"Only once he's gone."

Aria frowned, but waved to allow the communication through. "Stay back. I want to bring you in for effect."

"Fair enough."

" _How predictable, Aria_. _You'll never make it—you might as well call it off._ "

"You're barking up the wrong tree, General. But maybe you can convince my partner."

Shepard stepped into capture range and lifted a 'yeah, I'm here,' hand in greeting.

" _The_ _Commander Shepard. I've heard great things about you._ "

He was a data-miner. You could always tell the type. He was figuring her out the way she was figuring him out—the longer they talked, the better grasp each had on the situation. He was cocky, though, and used to being the smartest guy on the planet—or, in this case, asteroid.

"Not from the Illusive Man," Shepard responded blandly.

" _Yes. It is a pity you left Cerberus. We all sabotage ourselves in nefarious ways. Perhaps deep down you fear success._ " He wanted her to deny it, to show him how she felt based on knee-jerk reactions.

He'd never tried unravelling an N. They were trained, especially when warned in advance, to suspend knee-jerk reactions. It was one reason many came across as large predators. Think. Then act. "You think?"

" _And Aria's opening move is the hope that seeing you will unsettle me. Accepted—now it's my turn._ "

She hated the ones who thought in terms of games. They were usually good at what they did. However, a game board was often two-dimensional, and Ns were trained to think in three dimensions.

Four, if one counted time as a strategic tool.

" _Your Silaris armor is about to prove an exorbitant waste_."

It was a risk she ought to have paid more attention to, Shepard thought. She was caught in capture; anything she did would be seen. Any sign that she was thinking hard and trying to come up with a way to work around a new piece of information would be seen. Without a Garrus or Miranda to interpret intent without needing speech, she couldn't do anything without the General seeing and couldn't withdraw without letting him know she understood the threat—the weapons on Omega weren't what Aria expected—and was working to counter it.

Clearly Omega had seen a few upgrades. Fortunately, Aria's intel was next to nothing, so there would be no reshuffling plans. The plan would have to evolve based on what was found once they got on the ground.

Well played, pinning any clever ideas she had in the spotlight.

" _You might as well turn right back around, ladies."_

Assumed magnanimity. A megalomaniac if ever she saw one. He was going to try to control he board, but so far he'd shown himself reactionary, not proactive. A defensive player—and defensive was a good position to be in at the moment. However, there would come a moment when defensive turned into being pinned.

"Let's see what you've got, Oleg," Aria smiled sweetly.

Shepard said nothing, merely watched Petrovsky's face draw into lines of consternation. He didn't think much of Aria and wasn't willing to show what he thought of Shepard herself. This was, she read in his features before the link severed, going to be an inconvenience.

"He's upgraded Omega's weapons," Shepard noted.

He wasn't going to let them touch down and put her in a place where she could do serious damage. Shepard was an on-the-ground asset. Let her get onto the station and he would have a serious concern.

"Sounds like," Aria agreed. "What's your read on him?"

"Megalomaniac. Chess-master. Asshole," Shepard suggested—the last because someone was going to say it eventually. It might as well be her. Fortunately, she knew that it was possible to be a nasty piece of work and still be an asshole.

Petrovsky had learned the lessons of the Illusive Man well.

"He likes playing people, likes to feel smart. Tries to get into people's heads."

"So how tightly closed is yours?" Aria asked.

"Dunno, yet. He probably has my file, but that's about it."


	345. Traffic Jam

Aria gritted her teeth for a moment. Petrovsky's smug attitude always rubbed her the wrong way and today she was in no mood for it.

"Initiate preset course," she snapped, pushing past Shepard. "We're ramming the station. Everyone, brace for impact!"

"Are you crazy?" Shepard demanded sharply, though she immediately reached down to activate the gravlocks in her boots.

"Omega's kinietic barrier will stop my ships from landing. I equipped this cruiser with disruptors to take it out on impact."

"Aw shit," Shepard growled, reaching out for the nearest steady object. From the resigned look on the Captain's face, Shepard had been through something similar before and enjoyed it no more now than she had then.

"Don't worry. We'll probably survive the crash." Aria braced herself, glancing at Shepard's gravlocked boots. The Captain reminded her, vaguely, of one of those little shelled creatures humans sometimes kept as pets. Turtles.

"Weapons locking onto us," one of the techs announced.

Yes, that would happen during a mission like this one. There was no need to sound so concerned—because it really didn't matter what you _felt_ so much as how you presented yourself.

Shepard immediately stomped up to Bray and began reading over the batarian's shoulder, taking in information firsthand instead of relying on whatever was relayed out.

"Evasive maneuvers!" Bray barked, her tone spiking with nerves.

Aria didn't hear all of Shepard's comment, only made out 'joker' and 'Cortez.'

Probably wishing for some asshole pilot of her acquaintance.

The ship shuddered, then lurched strangely. "What was that?" Aria demanded.

"Damage to the stern. You can tell the way it fishtailed," Shepard answered, her mouth compacted into a thin line as she put her helmet on and sealed her suit. Before she did so, Aria had the fleeting impression of Shepard being paler than she ought to be, glazed with sweat and…was she _wincing_ at every little jerk and tilt?

Then again, the story went that Shepard died in space after a Collector attack. Ship-to-ship combat on a strange vessel wouldn't do her any good. But she was holding it together; that was all Aria cared about. They'd be groundside soon enough.

Another lurch. "Shields down!"

"Reroute here to here," Shepard declared, pointing at something on the interface. "Put it all front. Looks like ramming's the only option we've got."

"Are you serious?" This to the reroute, not the ramming. Bray had always known about that.

"I have an inventive pilot," Shepard answered.

"Just do it," Aria barked as another lurch assailed her nerves.

"Shit," Bray and Shepard both growled.

"All systems failing! So much for rerouting!" Bray backed.

"We can make it!" Aria called. "Just stay steady!"

The human and the batarian exchanged a moment of conversation, after which Shepard put a hand on the batarian's shoulder.

"Aria, this isn't going to work," Shepard declared.

"It _will_!"

"You want me to fight your damn ground war, fine, but I can't do that if you get us all killed because you can't adapt. Sound the evac!"

There was something compelling, even to her, in Shepard's barked order. It also hinted that Shepard was a step away from declaring the ground war started since crashing was the only option. Aria met Shepard's eyes and found only hardness and brewing impatience.

She slammed a console with her fist. Shepard was, she hated to admit it, right—the new defenses were turning the cruiser into Armali light cheese and nothing was going to change that. "Program escape pods for the station," Aria snarled, her voice spiking as the ship rocked so hard she staggered forward into the command hub. The skin over her hipbone protested as it was pinched between bone and hub.

"You heard her: everyone up, everyone out," Shepard barked, her tone one of control and command. There was urgency, but there was no sign of panic. "There's no time, just go," she said, pausing at a salarian still trying to fiddle in a few more keystrokes.

"This way!" Aria barked and took off at a run, Shepard lumbering behind the group with Korvus at her shoulder.

Aria knew Shepard well enough to know that Shepard would put the crew first if it came to them versus her. Korvus was there to throw the stupid woman into an escape pod if she evidenced any altruistic notions.

"This is gonna cut it close, Aria!" Shepard barked as the ship began to come apart, cables falling and sparks flying. The lights guttered and were suddenly limited to emergency reds.

Aria levered herself into her escape pod. She had a moment to sense what only an asari could: for a moment at the door Shepard had to check herself so as not to look behind her. During that moment, despite that she didn't actually freeze, up her aura went blank-white.

Aria smirked when Shepard yelped as Korvus pushed back the rest of the crew, leaned down and smacked the gravlocks release on Shepard's left boot, then jerked Shepard forward, using the momentum to send her around and sprawling into the pod. "A date usually sits up front," Aria noted as Shepard shrugged into her harness, Korvus and the rest filing in.

Shepard didn't answer as she reengaged her left gravlock, before gripping the harness, and closing her eyes as every muscle pulled taut. Her aura swirled in a haze of dizzying sickness

Frankly, she could have done without being in a pod with a nervous vorcha.

Aria forced a chuckle and wondered if it sounded as sickly to everyone else as it did to her. "Guess that asshole really did upgrade Omega's defenses."

"Brace-brace-brace!" Shepard barked, her eyes glued on the instrumentation panel screaming at them overhead.

The pod impacted a split second later with a force that seemed to shatter every bone in Aria's unarmored torso. It knocked the wind out of her and the sensation of skidding was sickening. More than one passenger screamed as the pod finally struck something it couldn't run over.


	346. Accord

"Open her up. Follow me," Shepard hissed to Korvus, him being the closest to the pod door. Weapons charged behind her, appearing from beneath the seats. He nodded and wrenched it open, allowing Shepard to jump out and begin firing. They had crashed, so it seemed, right into the middle of a Cerberus patrol.

Her rifle chattered at them, three-round bursts, well placed, followed by the less disciplined spray from the others and a massive pulse of energy that could only be Aria, who landed on the ground a second later, throwing another wall of energy at the last of the patrol closest to them.

From the sounds ahead, there were more and they were regrouping.

From the shouts behind, they'd lost two of the pod's occupants—both asari. The lack of further screams said 'dead, not wounded.'

Shepard made for the nearest cover and ducked behind it. Now came the part Shepard had not looked forward to—the part she knew about that she hadn't looked forward to.

"I hope the other escape pods made it!" Aria called, popping up and sending another pulse of energy downrange. Shepard jumped up as Aria ducked, sending suppressing fire in quick succession. She dropped, and the other four occupants let off streams of fire.

"Alright! What's our target?" Shepard demanded, popping up to let off another burst of fire.

"Station defenses systems! They control the outer defenses! Kill them and my ships can land. This is the part I brought you for—ground assault!"

Which meant her tech specialization would come in handy.

"Korvus! Flank left!" Shepard barked, then pointed right as the vorcha was blasted back by concentrated fire. They were pinned and couldn't afford to bog down.

The turian grinned and slithered off. Fire downrange veered left as Shepard popped up to send another spray of suppressing fire. He was no Garrus, but he could take instructions and infer. It would, hopefully, be enough for now.

"Okay. Ground assault, defense systems. Anything else?"

"Combat is your party. What you say goes."

"Uh-huh." Shepard imagined pissing contests the whole, long way; everything she knew about Aria indicated the 'Queen of Omega' couldn't bear to share leadership (if only out of habit of being in charge—it was as failing among humans and turians as any other species). Then again, this was a crisis. Perhaps she ought to cut the asari some slack.

Aria obviously agreed with her, given the scowl on her face. "Head's up!" Korvus barked after the initial unexpected burst of fire.

"Pulse downrange!" Shepard shouted, almost in Aria's face as she jumped up and began firing again.

Aria jumped up to and sent a mighty burst of dark energy slamming forward, blasting everything out of its way.

"All clear, Shepard!" Krovus called.

"Get back here. Now, you were scowling," Shepard answered calmly.

"I _can_ be a team player," Aria declared darkly.

"Nav-point."

"I set the trajectory for my pod to hit near defense systems control," Aria explained, her omnitool flaring, "just in case this happened. It's a bit of a run."

Shepard investigated the head on her omnitool for a moment. "Okay. Let's go. Aria, up with me. Korvus on my left, you two bring up the rear and keep them from doubling back behind us." She checked her heading again then darted around the crate, moving in the half-crouch recommended for urban combat, weaving between points of cover—of which there were many. From what she could tell, this was some kind of information handling hub. Most of the terminals looked like they were set up for communications.

It didn't matter—not yet, anyway. She could tap in—or try to—once they had the defense systems under control.

Her eyes moved as she pushed the team forward. Apparently, Petrovsky hadn't expected the escape pods, but for Aria to hard-headedly stick to the original plan. That explained why resistance as they neared the objective grew stiffer, but never reached true lockdown strength.

A glint of light caught her eye as she reached the terminal. "Cover me," she declared, crouching as her omnitool flaring as she spliced a synch between the terminal and herself.

As she worked, she glanced to the original flicker without moving her head.

Camera.

So, Petrovsky kept eyes and ears when he couldn't be present himself. Good to know—she'd have to make sure that just because folks thought they were able to speak freely they didn't actually do it. She didn't need a legitimate strategy session.

"Don't look around, just give me your omnitool's frequency," Shepard murmured.

Aria obeyed, bringing up her omnitool's interface. It gave a soft ping a moment later, which Shepard's echoed. "Shepard, the longer we wait, the more of my ships get blasted out of the sky," the asari noted.

Shepard didn't answer, didn't look away from the quick work of moving through the Cerberus system. She was well aware of the ships outside being blasted to scrap, but a tech could only work so fast and she wasn't a salarian.

Suddenly, the system gave a warble, and she shut down her omnitool. "That's it," she announced, getting got her feet and moving to the terminal. "I'm in. Petrovsky'll break this thing eventually, but it'll bog him down—weapons and shields. Get your men moving and move them fast."

She wished she had EDI: EDI could keep a while unit of techs from regaining control of the station.

Shepard pricked her ears as Aria began giving orders, her eyes sliding to the massive windows—or screens resembling windows—that looked out on the now-quiescent guns and the battle beyond. Space battles were always deceptive at distance, looking so calm and unhurried.

Glitter. The camera moved again, and it took effort not to look.

"Did you see that?" Korvus asked quietly.

"Yeah, I saw it," Shepard sighed. "We just have to be careful what we say for a while."

Shepard's omnitool flared. "It's the navpoint for our rendezvous with Bray."


	347. Men and Machines

Shepard's nerves were still jangling from the rough landing and the disintegration-under-cannon-fire of the original plan. The jangling nerves amplified her unease as she moved closer to the dead husk of the mech and the wall of energy that looked so innocuous, but which had completely crisped a vorcha.

The wall gave off a strange hum that made her inner ears itch. She wondered how many walls like this one Petrovsky had erected; they were fantastic for crowd control, as far as she could tell.

The second thing she wondered was how he powered them. Forcefields didn't just run themselves, and the better the field, the more juice it needed. If she had to guess, lacking anything more than a basic understanding of how forcefields worked, she would have to guess that he was shutting down non-critical portions of the station—she devoutly hoped that he hadn't simply shut down population areas with heavy non-human presences—and rerouting the power from them to maintain his forcefields.

She _really_ hoped he hadn't shut down power to any population centers…though she couldn't come up with a single good reason why he shouldn't. Thinking academically, if she had to pacify a station in order to hold it, proving concretely how little value life had to her would be an opening statement she might consider. He was Cerberus; to them, non-humans were expendable. If she'd thought about it, he certainly had.

She rolled her eyes. Nowadays, even regular humans were pretty expendable as far as Cerberus was concerned. It surprised her sometimes that people on the inside didn't realize this. Unless it was simply a sign of elitists, who didn't think what applied to the common person could be applied to them. Obviously, they didn't know what kind of monster they were working for. To the Illusive Man the only person who wasn't expendable was him.

It made her wonder how many people might be trapped on the inside, desperate to get out but lacking an opportunity. She knew the feeling, though admittedly she'd been a valued asset at the time.

Shepard shook her head to clear it before kneeling beside the dead mech, absently running a hand over its frame. She couldn't feel it through her suit gloves, but assessing the shape in this fashion helped focus her mind on the mech, and not a murderous asshole she couldn't reach.

It looked a modified Loki chassis, but _heavily_ modified. Tech mines and bullets hadn't been nearly as effective as they should have been, and even Aria's biotics, which were responsible for the kill, seemed somehow…underpowered…when dealing with the thing. More than that, its combat protocols had been tweaked. Shepard had become familiar with guard mechs over the years, but this one moved more like EDI in a fight than a standard mech. She didn't think it was a true AI, though. Just superbly programmed, one of what was probably a limited run.

She wondered if the use of mechs here signified anything, some attempt to hoard personnel as a resource by giving any local agitators something synthetic to shoot at. Was it an indication of a shortage of manpower, possibly because manpower had been diverted to the Citadel for the coup? Or was it simply more convenient to use the mechs than one of those brainwashed troopers?

It would be comforting to think that Cerberus was having manpower problems, to the point that they had to compensate with mechs. It meant they were running out of willing idiots.

She successfully avoided contemplating what might happen if Cerberus decided to move from recruitment to impressment. There was that story about Benning…

…okay, so she was not so successful in not thinking about nebulous awful scenarios.

She cued her omnitool, aware of Aria chomping at the bit to continue on. To the asari's credit, she said nothing as Shepard continued her assessments.

The kernel module was right where it ought to be, though it took some creative jimmying with her field knife to crack the housing around what was essentially the mech's brain, the core where all its programming resided.

Shepard wondered if EDI, who—however judicious she was about it—liked to modify her programming now that she could, would find these patterns and algorithms useful, or at least inspirational. She tucked the kernel module into her web gear, hoping there would be time to look at it in-depth later.

So far, this wasn't like Elysium, where it was running from one engagement into another, finding them like beads on a string. Sooner or later, there would be some kind of downtime. Hopefully, she'd be able to run a proper datamine and see what the mech had on its mind. If nothing else, it would keep her from prowling like a nervous cat later.

"These new to you?" she asked, glancing up at Aria while indicating the mech.

Aria frowned at the machine's husk with distaste. "Yeah. Heavily modified."

Shepard nodded. Yes, _very_ heavily modified. She'd grown accustomed to the standard Loki mechs which, while formidable, were an entirely lower class to these things.

She cracked the chest cavity and found what she was looking for: the panel all mechs carried which techs could use when they needed to look for support—in case the mech was secondhand or even thirdhand and the owner didn't know anything about it.

"Rampart mechs," she announced. The lack of manufacturer—and much else—told her they were a Cerberus creation. She scanned the panel with her omnitool to look at later. She'd have to see about hacking into Cerberus' local network to discover whether the techs on station had a digital handbook for these things' care and maintenance lying around. There had to be one _somewhere_. Once she understood them, so to speak, she could tweak her tech mines to regain their lost efficacy, or at least improve the effectiveness of everyone else's skills.

Shepard got to her feet, rolling her shoulder to loosen them. "Let's go."


	348. Old Friends

Shepard stopped the convoy, holding up a hand. There was no sense delaying it any longer. "You might as well come out," she called wearily. "I can hear you sneaking around. Next request involves bullets—I'm having a bad day."

"You've got good ears," a flanged, female voice declared. From somewhere higher up dropped a lithe shape, which unfolded into a svelte turian in a hood that reminded Shepard simultaneously of Kasumi and the turian cabalists—except that, unlike the cabalists, the turian's hood was simple black.

It had always struck Shepard as odd how sleek and understated a turian female was compared to the spikey, heavily cowled males. This one was no exception.

"Nyreen," Aria answered darkly, marginally lowering her pistol. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The turian shrugged her shoulders. "Playing cat and mouse, mostly. Just…trying to stay alive. If it wasn't for these tunnels—"

The turian, Nyreen, abruptly reminded Shepard of Garrus. What was it he'd said? _If it wasn't for that bridge, funneling all those witness idiots into scope…_

" _My_ tunnels," Aria corrected. Then, after a pause and a flick of eyes over the turian, "I'm sure glad I showed them to you."

The comment lacked sarcasm or derision; Shepard wouldn't have said there was fondness, but Aria meant what she said.

"So am I. If you hadn't, I'd be dead or locked up by now." Nyreen waved and began to prowl nervously back and forth.

Shepard looked from one woman to the other. "Old friends?" she asked neutrally.

"I don't know," Nyreen answered, ceasing to pace. "Are we?"

Old girlfriend then, Shepard thought sourly. Great.

"Captain Shepard, Council Spectre. Nyreen Kandros, ex turian military. We go way back," Aria declared.

Nyreen pulled herself up a little at this. Somehow…Shepard didn't think running into Nyreen was entirely accidental. Old girlfriend dropping from the ceiling in a secret tunnel? It just didn't fly for it to be coincidence. And Shepard did not put much faith in coincidence most of the time.

She ran through the last few minutes of conversation. _Dead or locked up by now._ Omega had too high a non-human population for Cerberus to expend resources killing them off. So what was Nyreen up to that warranted 'capture or kill?' Or was it because of who she worked for?

"Explains a lot," Shepard responded neutrally. Whether she meant 'ex turian military' or 'we go way back,' even Shepard herself wasn't entirely sure.

"I've got a lot of questions, but they'll wait," Aria declared. "Stay close. We'll get you out of here."

And _that_ was as sentimental as Aria T'Loak ever got. Shepard was sure of it.

Shepard looked at Nyreen, a faint smile playing around her mouth as the turian waved her mandibles in amusement.

"I'll do my best," the turian answered blandly.

Shepard's faint smile became an outright grin. Her eyes dropped to the curved dagger at Nyreen's hip. Turians called their knives 'talons.' Ex turian military wouldn't sit still during an occupation. That said 'resistance fighter' of some description come to investigate Aria's return to Omega.

Something like that would have influence on a lot of factors.

Nyreen, noting where Shepard's gaze had fallen, winked and patted the weapon fondly.

No playing coy, then. Good. "Ready to put that rifle to good use?" Shepard asked.

Nyreen patted the stock with a little more 'let's go shoot something already' than fondness. "You have no idea how ready."

"Good. There's going to be plenty of trouble downrange."

" _Aria. We have problems,"_ Bray's voice cut in over the radio, causing Shepard to look around for security cameras.

"Don't worry about them," Nyreen breathed beneath Aria's sharp demand for feedback. "Any cameras, I mean."

"Right. Why do I have the impression I know a lot more than Aria, right now?" Shepard asked just as softly.

Nyreen's chuckle was more a feeling on the air than an audible sound. "You've got good eyes, too." Smart woman though, as she said nothing to compromise herself or betray her personal goals or affiliations. The turian played a close game—good policy for resistance fighters.

"— _converging on headquarters. They're going to cut you off._ "

"I think they've been following your killed cameras," Aria noted to Shepard.

"Wouldn't help him to get ahead of us. Not with the number of turnoffs I've seen," Shepard answered. "I think he could only fail to notice the rats that left the ship converging on a central point. I'm assuming you only had one rendezvous point instead of several, converging in stages."

"If there's one thing I can say for Petrovsky, he can manage a battlefield. Have you seen those energy barriers yet? _Excellent_ crowd control," Nyreen remarked. "Backed by his mechs—"

"Those are some of the meanest ones I've ever seen," Shepard agreed. "Hopefully we can drag one into your bunker for me to have a look at." She wished Tali the tech expert was here. Tali would have modified tech mines in twenty minutes. Unfortunately, Tali was who-knew-where…

…if she was even alive. Shepard squelched the thought. Now wasn't the time.

"Well, if we're going into a hot zone, we know about it. What was your specialty?" Shepard asked Nyreen in her most businesslike tone.

"I was training for stealth and recon until my biotics manifested," Nyreen answered, fiddling absently with her hood.

"Good to know. Frontline or support?"

"Doesn't matter," Nyreen answered with the kind of 'I'm just good like that' grin Garrus got when he sunk another headshot under less than ideal circumstances.

"Good to know. Keep to the back—I've seen Aria throw a punch and would like to rely on it. Keep us covered."

Nyreen looked from Shepard to Aria as though expecting the asari to give her blessing.

What Aria gave was a growl and a too hard slap to her pistol to change the heat sink.

"Huh," was all the turian said before Shepard, trying not to smirk, started off at a trot.


	349. Match Wits

Oleg Petrovsky frowned at the still frame of Shepard and Aria, noting the wolfish lines of disgust on the latter and the fixed immobility of the other.

The Illusive Man had once called Shepard a virus, and a pernicious one at that. He had his proofs: genophage cured, krogan and turians working together, the coup on the Citadel put down—that, at least, explained why she was here with Aria. Shepard was an idealist with a strong moral foundation; nothing short of an emergency or powerful logistical benefits could actuate her into working with Omega's former 'queen.'

In this case, folding up two major Cerberus actions—one offensive, one defensive—was the motivation. He didn't doubt that Aria had sweetened the pot; seeing Shepard taking part in an offensive without one of her many familiars was simply odd. There had to be something there, though he couldn't say what.

Shepard was an idealist, even in time of war. He'd listened to her several times on the news, her advocacy for putting aside old grudges, for tolerance (if not understanding), and for strength in unity. She even made them sound like practical, manageable goals.

It was almost a pity she'd left Cerberus. He could admit that. He might even have liked to see what she and Ms. Lawson could accomplish between the two of them.

But she hadn't, which was unfortunate but hardly a problem here.

He studied the lines of Shepard's expression, noted the subtle hints of rigidity about it. Shepard was a graduate of the ICT program which made her more dangerous than most people. He'd met Kai Leng, knew the man cordially. They weren't cut from the same cloth, Shepard and Leng.

Leng was a killer, plain and simple. One only needed to look him in the heavily-modified eyes to see that. A well-trained killer, an effective killer, but…well, maybe not so _very_ effective, seeing that his targets were not only still breathing but more heavily protected than ever. No, Leng was a wolf or some such creature—it hunted each of its targets one at a time with single-minded focus.

Shepard, however, maintained a subtle mystique that she probably didn't know about—she seemed the oblivious type when it came to her value as a figurehead. Spectre, N7, Reaper-fighter…her resume painted her as a veritable god of war. And one only needed to look into _her_ eyes to know she had something intrinsic that Leng conspicuously lacked. She was more of a hawk, surveying the terrain where no one could reach her until she fell like the end of the world on some unsuspecting (or just as often some suspecting) creature's vulnerable back.

It was quite impressive how one school of training could turn out such different graduated. Lion-like David Anderson. Eva Rogers, about whom he'd never been able to decide, vacillating between thinking of her as a snake or as a rhinoceros. Such a menagerie ICT maintained.

But knowing kind allowed for classification and, in this case, clarity followed composed consideration—something he needed to ensure Shepard had very little of. Give her too much time to think and that virus would bypass firewalls faster than they could be raised.

If Aria was the queen—and she certainly was, a powerful piece which too many people overdeveloped—then Shepard was a knight. Definitely a knight, someone who could move through enemy ranks and files unhampered.

That could become a problem if not nipped in the bud quickly. However, Shepard's trail of damaged security cameras confirmed that she was heading in the same direction as all the other rats scattering from Aria's various crash sites. That was predictable enough and, thanks to his own network of security cameras and his data-munchers (proper data munchers, not the mindless drones fit only for battlefield fodder), he knew where their destination was.

Using the ship as a weapon was creative, but any plan that involved crashing a cruiser into a space station and having everyone run to the same locale to plan Stage Two was just silly. That was _definitely_ Aria's idea.

That was why she'd brought Shepard, he decided. Shepard knew how to run a ground campaign—she'd done it before. The question was whether Aria could keep her blue mitts off the operations enough for Shepard to make them successful.

Keep one's friends close and enemies closer—which meant Aria would be in the field, making life difficult. The asari was no huntress, no commando. That would hamper Shepard's effectiveness. Division in the ranks was useful in itself…and with the number of batarians on Omega and probably within Aria's forces, Shepard would meet friction there, too.

Not everyone could put aside personal paradigms to see the cold, brutal necessity people like Shepard and he dealt with every day. Not that she was _quite_ as good at separating herself from things as he was. Still, she made it work for her—look at her crew of fanatics, at the disparate factions she maneuvered this way at that with little more than her resume of action, a word of honor without tarnish, and that innate something that let her speak a hundred languages without ever deviating from her own mother tongue.

Ah, well. This was Omega and the station was his. His drones couldn't be swayed, nor could the Adjutants—though she was certainly welcome to try. He had the superior position and was more than a match for her.

Petrovsky paused in his considerations of how to slow Shepard. For a brief moment he'd considered finding a way to put 'innocents' between her gun and her objective. He'd dismissed the thought quickly; Shepard understood collateral damage and Aria simply didn't care. It wasn't something he could exploit.

Ah, well. There were other ways and running Omega provided so little time to condition the mind. He looked forward to the challenge.

With this thought, he walked over to his chessboard and reset the game, moving two pieces—the opening moves.


	350. Holding Pattern

It wasn't a bad setup, as far as Shepard could tell. Part of her was relieved to reach some bastion of safety, though part of her knew it wouldn't stay safe for long. She appreciated that she relied on her crew for support—both in the field and out of it—but she hadn't realized just how much she would miss them. It was like wearing someone else's armor; the fit might be okay, but it wasn't _quite_ right.

Shepard glanced at Nyreen, who took in the bunker with the bright interest so reminiscent of birds on Earth. A wide-eyed kind of darting attention that took in so much, despite being so quick.

She still didn't think for one moment that meeting Nyreen as they had, where they had, was simple coincidence. Apparently, Aria agreed, because Bray was immediately tasked to keep an eye on the turian.

Shepard rolled her shoulders, pushing back what she could only describe as a kind of homesickness. She missed her crew, disliked the isolation from what had become a dependable foundation. She hoped they were alright…

…then chided herself. Of course they were alright. Garrus was looking out for them, and the _Normandy_ wouldn't disengage the parking brake for anyone without her say-so, so they were still at the Citadel. And unless the Reapers decided the time was ripe to crush that tin can—she sincerely hoped it wasn't—her people would be just fine where they were.

She sat down on the nearest surface, picking out Nyreen and Aria before pulling out the mech's kernel module. At the very least, she could start work on that. It would be soothing to her nerves, still frayed after that insane crash-landing.

She hoped she could shake it off soon. For a moment, there at the door of the escape pod, she'd been back on the SR-1, having thrown Joker into the pod, pausing to glance behind. She'd done just that, again, as if reliving the moment on Aria's doomed cruiser—

Shepard bit her tongue until it hurt. Nope. Not going back there. Thank goodness for Korvus giving her the necessary (and metaphorical) boot. But her stomach squirmed uneasily, nevertheless.

"How's that going?" Aria's asked dryly.

"It's going," Shepard answered. "How're we doing?"

"Not fabulous, but we're working on it."

Shepard sensed the asari teetering on something, but whatever it was, Aria gave a snort and left well enough alone, stalking back to the command hub.

Shepard looked up once she was sure the woman was gone. There was Aria, interacting vociferously with her command cadre. There was Nyreen, perched on a stack of boxes on the left side of the bunker, one knee drawn up to her chest, the other foot kicking lightly as she surveyed the general hustle.

Shepard opened her omnitool and began the delicate process of extracting the kernel's contents. She'd make a copy of the mech's algorithms, just in case EDI _did_ find them useful. It couldn't hurt. And it would be a new experience: being brought a souvenir. Shepard hadn't had anyone to bring souvenirs in a long time.

She hoped, wherever Talitha's minders had taken her, was safer than where they were leaving. She didn't like to think what might have been if the girl had been on the station during the coup. She'd probably have ended up leverage at best…or a psychological attack at worst. Shepard could imagine Cerberus killing the girl simply because she, Shepard, wasn't able to do anything about it, then leaving or forwarding the footage.

Shepard shivered inwardly. That crash landing unsettled her more than she thought if she was getting caught on all these unpleasant tangents. Fortunately, once the shooting of the actual ground campaign started, all that mess would get pushed down somewhere out of the way so that necessity could be managed.

No, not the crash. Just the deep—and some might say well-founded—fear or ending up back in space. If she had to bet, sleeping later would be a real nightmare, in and of itself.

Shepard snorted herself, giving her head a sharp shake.

Aria was no longer in sight. Nyreen had moved to watch Bray unloading materiel, but gave no sign of interfering with the batarian's work.

Code began streaming freely to Shepard's omnitool. Most of it just the background processes that the mech needed to function—nothing exciting or interesting in and of itself. If there was one thing Shepard knew about extracting data, it was to start at the bottom and gently work her way towards more choice nodes. One was less likely to trip security, and one never knew what interesting tidbits might be hidden under the label 'garbage.'

Years ago, she'd stumbled over someone who had done just that: as a last-ditch attempt to preserve data—she forgot exactly what it was—he had hidden his critical files in his garbage node, but disabled the usual automated clean-outs.

Shepard glanced up from the streams of data.

There was Aria, back at the strategy table…

…and there was Bray, still unloading supplies…

…while Nyreen was nowhere to be seen.

Shepard scanned the room again. No sign of the turian, whatsoever.

Shepard got to her feet, suffering the inconvenience of the line connecting the kernel module to her omnitool as she sauntered up to Bray. "Hey Bray. Lose someone?"

The batarian turned around, all four eyes scanning the room. "…shit." To her credit, the batarian headed straight for Aria to report the disappearance.

It didn't worry Shepard. Chances were high, she thought as she followed Bray, that Nyreen would turn up again later. Something about this whole meeting smacked of a recon run. Recon finished, it made sense for Nyreen to discreetly disappear, withdraw to…wherever. Probably whatever resistance movement had formed. It was a big assumption to make, but Shepard felt safe making it.

The question was whether she'd walked out a side door, or whether the bunker was compromised. Aria wasn't exactly a popular figure.


	351. Turbulance

Aria T'Loak's day was rapidly disintegrating into 'worst day ever,' climbing the list of bad days in her life two entries at a time.

Her 'army' was decimated, leaving her too short on men to counter Cerberus as she'd intended. That was the biggest problem.

Nyreen was not only back, but had never left Omega—a concealment that impressed Aria as much as it wrong-footed her, hence the anger in the turian's direction. If she thought about it, it was impressive…but too much seemed to have been slipping her intelligence network in the last year.

Aria glanced sidelong at Shepard. Most people were unaware that Archangel had survived the three-fold assault on his headquarters and left Omega to reassume his real name and place in the galaxy. He and Nyreen had a lot in common. Best keep them apart or they might actually 'make a difference' on Omega, of all places.

She shoved the thought aside. It was a moot point since Archangel was well away from Omega. Maybe she should be grateful for her own forethought. Nyreen was the type to be a real fan. In fact, seeing that she'd never left, it surprised Aria that Nyreen hadn't fallen in with her fellow dextro crusader.

Probably for the best. Nyreen would have just gotten herself killed with the rest of his band.

"What?" Aria demanded as Bray came up to her…and did it soft-footedly. If Bray was walking soft that could only mean one thing…

"I turned away for a second to offload supplies. When I looked back—"

Aria could have _strangled_ Bray. "And you _lost_ her," Aria snarled. She wasn't sure if she was angry out of some smidgen of concern for Nyreen…or angry because she couldn't account for the disappearance. It didn't make _sense_ , little miss 'happy to help liberate the station'…

The batarian shifted uncomfortably, probably aware that under other circumstances Aria would have immediately followed through on her murderous impulse.

"Don't worry about it." Aria had to look up to confirm that Shepard was addressing her and not Bray. "She'll turn up again." Shepard shrugged, seeming quite easy in her mind about the matter. In fact, she seemed only mildly interested, like someone waiting for the punchline of a joke she could almost see through…but not enough to commit to saying 'oh, I know that one!'

"How do you know?" Aria demanded, disliking the sense of being out of the loop.

Shepard sighed as she considered the matter, then shrugged. "Because I believe she wants to liberate the station and she can't do it alone. We've got specialists and materiel."

"Then why isn't she here?" Aria asked dangerously.

Shepard remained nonplussed, ignoring the dangerous tone, confident of her place in the scheme of things. "That's the million credit question. But I'm more worried about us being short-handed by a lot than about one turian popping up and slipping off on her own terms. She'll show up again, sooner or later."

Shepard had a point and, in the matter of a ground war, she would have to be content to take Shepard's word on the matter. She didn't like it, but she knew better than to bring in a specialist and try to do that specialist's job. "Dammit, Bray. If I wasn't already short on manpower…" Aria unclenched her fists and took a fortifying breath. It didn't really help. Anger management of this sort had never been her strong suit.

However, she _was_ shorthanded and knew that if she'd really wanted to keep an eye on Nyreen she'd have tasked Shepard to do it or done it herself.

Shepard was leaning on the terminal, arms crossed, expression thoughtful, almost amused.

Well, she was glad _someone_ was having fun.

Aria clenched her fists again and tried to stamp down the anger rising like bile. "I have a way to augment our own forces, of course," she grated out, aware that Bray withdrew rather hastily as soon as Aria's attention had focused elsewhere. "When you and Archangel finished your war, you left a considerable power vacuum. It was eventually filled by a merc gang calling themselves the Talons."

"Talons," Shepard repeated, rolling the word around in her mouth. "Turian core?"

"I don't know. They weren't even bit players before your little crusade." Archangel had done a lot of damage by himself. The ruin he'd managed with Shepard's help was mind-boggling. The three merc gangs had had trouble recruiting for months—no one had wanted to sign up until they were sure the shadow of Archangel had passed.

"That crusade was very beneficial in the long run," Shepard answered idly.

Ye-es…there _was_ that. And she'd been generous in rewarding Shepard for that little tidbit of information. Therefore the matter was closed and over and done with. No need to bring it up again.

"As to their core, I would assume yes," Aria said, returning to Shepard's original question. She supposed something in Shepard's training prompted the question; maybe she thought there might be enough cultural identity to give her insight. If so, she was just naïve; that sort of thing didn't hold up on Omega. The identities and norms were all different from the galactic mainstream. "Their leader's name is Derius. Nasty piece of work but fairly run of the mil for Omega. I think you'll despise one another."

"If he lives that long."

Aria glanced at Shepard, finding her expression one of grim understanding of how things would go once Aria caught up with Derius. There was no indication Shepard felt strongly one way or the other about Derius' fate. Good. It was easier, more expedient, to simply oust the old regime and step into the vacuum herself. _That_ would be more easily accomplished if she wasn't tripping over someone's idealism. "There _may_ be some shuffling of the Talons' chain of command. Derius isn't the type to respond to reasoned argument."

"Well, maybe his second will."

Aria grinned. "It's nice to know we're on the same page."


	352. Balance of Power

Shepard found herself grinning as Nyreen plugged the last Cerberus drone through the visor. She glanced over at Aria, who looked like her control over her temper was fraying, even if she remained cool and focused about it. It was a good trait and had come as something of a relief. All she knew of Aria was what she knew of the woman while she'd been in control—here on Omega or in Purgatory.

Now though, control was nominal and it couldn't be clearer that Aria didn't like being out of control. Shepard supposed no one did, but she'd begun to think that there might be deeper none-of-her-business reasons for it.

"Hello Nyreen."

"Captain."

The two women, human and turian, share a grin. "Guess we don't have to worry about Derius," Shepard remarked lightly to Aria. It was hard not to smirk.

"I take it you knew about this?" Aria asked grimly.

"I suspected Nyreen had ties to some resistance movement," Shepard answered. "And red isn't a color you usually see with clan markings. So when we started seeing Talon tags I considered the possibility that it was another of Omega's warps of mainstream conventions."

"Someone trained you well," Nyreen noted.

"I always thought so," Shepard agreed.

Silence settled until broken by Aria. "Well, you're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

Shepard wasn't sure whether this remark was aimed at her, Nyreen, or both of them together.

Nyreen looked away from Aria, moved over to one of her dead men and knelt beside the body. "The deception was necessary," the turian answered. "I needed to know what your plans were. The people of Omega depend on us. I couldn't risk you compromising our operations."

"So how'd you go from being a street gang to paramilitary?"

Nyreen looked up as Shepard crouched across from her. "When Cerberus invaded, the Talons were a mess. I gave them…new direction."

"Got it." It meant Nyreen had killed Derius and took over. If the Talons really were mostly turian, she probably had been able to pull on half-remembered cultural ties, however mutated by having existed on Omega. She'd brought something back to the Talons—probably the idea of an honorable existence that was practicable on Omega and the unit-first mentality.

Depending on how long she'd been with the Talons, Nyreen had probably been cultivating these ideas—less out of slyness and more because they were what she knew. You could take a turian out of the Hierarchy, but you rarely took the Hierarchy out of the turian.

"I'd love to stay and chat, but the General is attacking one of our outposts. I need to be there. Aria, Captain, whatever you're for the answer is no. Kindly escort yourself off Talon territory."

Shepard didn't frown at this, although she would have liked to. She was perceptive enough to know what this glaring refusal to consider that the Talons' and the former regime's goals were one and the same—station liberation—was. There was only one thing to account for that, and it made Shepard sigh inwardly. It was the reason—one of them—that the Alliance discouraged fraternization. Now was the time to discover whether or not Aria was really going to let her conduct this war. "Seems to me this whole station is _Cerberus_ territory and I happen to be running an anti-Cerberus operation. With access to people and materiel."

Nyreen looked over her shoulder at Shepard. When Shepard merely pinned her with a look, Nyreen's mandibles fluttered, her golden eyes jumping from Shepard to Aria and back. "People and materiel, huh?" the turian asked.

Shepard nodded. In that moment of mandible-fluttering, of the stolen glance, it almost seemed as though Nyreen didn't want to be caught too close for too long to Aria, like an addict who'd gone clean suddenly confronted with the old vice. It could be ignored, but the temptation to go back was always there, lurking, tempting and a threat to the onlooker.

Shepard couldn't imagine Aria T'Loak in any relationship she would call 'healthy' for both parties. That would explain a lot, and it prompted her next statement, "A warzone is no place for ex-girlfriend business."

' _Don't "Alenko" me, this is business.'_

' _What_ else _would it be?'_

Nyreen's mandibles twitched. The flinch was the only sign that the remark had found its target. "That's a very generous offer. But tell me, Captain—do you _really_ speak for Aria? That doesn't seem to me the kind of offer you could personally back."

She had a point and Shepard knew it. In the confines of her own mind, she did feel uncertain of her footing. But the uncertainty mustn't show.

"It's not the way _I_ would have said put it, but that's the idea," Aria said delicately—delicate and with an edge. Shepard was used to the edge by now. Aria didn't like being seen to cooperate too freely. People might get the idea she could be negotiated with or led about.

By now, Shepard could ignore it completely. Aria had been serious when promising she could be a team player and knew when to let the 'mission specialist' have a free hand. It was reassuring, but the pressure wasn't on yet and Shepard knew not to rely wholly and blindly on any promise Aria T'Loak made when that promise involved sharing leadership—particularly if their opinions on a matter were to diverge.

But it was the risk one took when putting two decisive persons-of-action personalities accustomed to leading (in one form or another) in the same unit. An intense situation had a way of settling everyone into their proper place. She simply hoped it wouldn't involve friendly fire.

"We should discuss this elsewhere. But right now, I have an outpost under siege," Nyreen declared after a moment of silent thought.

"Coincidentally, I have time to kill," Shepard answered lightly.

Nyreen's expression melted into one of wry amusement. She said nothing, merely nodded for Shepard (and, by extension Aria) to follow.


	353. Second Wind

Author's Note: It's been a rough few days for me. So for everyone else who needs a break from a rough few days, have a couple more chapters. Hang in there.

-J-

"Easy there, fella," Shepard said soothingly as she took a knee beside a turian who bled freely across his stretcher. The rudimentary bandages, meant to last only until he could be worked on properly, were saturated. "I need turian syntheblood type…C-two!"

"Aw shit," the turian, young given the state of his carapace breathed, his eyes pinpointing.

"Hey, hey, I'm just gonna top you off. Can't have you getting light-headed once the real fighting starts, right?" Shepard asked, accepting the bag of syntheblood from an asari and checking the designation on it. "How're your feet?"

"Feet? Oh, feet. Fine—they're fine. I've-I've never been shot before," the lad warbled. There was a rumble outside Shepard's hearing range that she caught only because she and her hands on him and could feel the vibration.

"Don't worry. It's not lethal. You're gonna be just fine."

Shepard remembered, vividly as she washed blue blood off her hands, Tom Turian during xenomedical training with the N-program. She tried desperately not to: the instructors took perverse pleasure in informing recruits that the patient had been 'killed.'

"They do train you humans well, don't they?" Nyreen mused.

"N-program. Xenomedical is a requirement. Mostly battlefield stuff, though I could pull a bullet out of your liver if I had to."

" _Without_ killing me, I presume?" Nyreen asked dryly.

"That's the plan, yeah. Do you need me with you or should I stay and lend a few extra fingers?" Shepard held her hand up and wiggled the digits.

"Right now the fingers are more useful. Don't worry, I won't let you fall out of the loop."

"Thanks for that," Shepard answered before applying herself to another turian who looked like he'd broken a leg. She wondered, when it came up, whether there wasn't a time in turian history where a broken leg had been a death sentence. Leggy and built to run, a turian who couldn't run surely would have had problems. Or had their kind always geared towards regulated cooperation?

She probed the bones, forcing herself to remember how the turian support structures worked.

"That's ICT, isn't it?" he asked, wincing as she realigned the bones.

"Yep."

"Tangled with one of your guys, once. He was a pushover," the turian rasped, mandibles contracting in pain.

"Tangled with a turian Spectre once. He died like anyone else," Shepard responded blandly.

The turian laughed then hissed as she abruptly shoved, then anchored, the bone into place. Clearly he'd known enough to get himself good and distracted. Trash talk was good for that. "…in all fairness, he was also drunk." The turian laughed, but there was an edge of pain in his voice.

"In all fairness, he was a tough son of a bitch," Shepard relented and began splinting the break. "Don't do anything on this leg anytime soon."

She wished Mordin was here, and felt a sharp stab of pain.

 _Has to be me. Someone else might have gotten it wrong._

She tried to comfort herself that he'd gone out the way he wanted to, that he had been ridiculously old for a salarian…but thinking about Mordin made her think about Thane, who ought to have had decades more time.

 _Do not grieve for me._

She set her jaw. She was going to find Kai Leng and turn him into a _pincushion_. She knew the kinds of revenge she began to construct were the kinds that offered more satisfaction in the planning than in the enactment thereof, but she indulged them for a moment.

Pierce his lungs—or one of them—and _then_ stick him. Poetic justice: let him bleed out while he could barely breathe…

But right now her job was fixing injuries. She knew Thane would prefer that she remember him while doing some good than remembering him while seeing how nastily creative she could be. She moved on to an asari who had an ugly amount of bruising on her face. "What's your story?" Shepard asked, forcing a reassuring smile.

"Long and sketchy," the woman chuckled, hissing a she did so. "Didn't stop a crashing skycar properly. Got pinched before I could stop it," she answered.

Treating levos was easier than treating dextros—with the exception of a few medications that should not be administered to asari that were fine for humans and salarians. "Feels like you just got crunched. I'm not finding any odd bleeding, but I'm going to flag you for observation," Shepard declared after finished in probing gently for any odd lumps or bulges to indicate internal damage.

"I've been crunched before, _kid_ ," the asari answered blandly, tactfully reminding Shepard that, however young she looked, she was probably older than Shepard by…a lot. "I hurt. I'm not dying."

"So much the better. We need all hands."

The asari scoffed with a rueful shake of her head. "Can't argue with that."

It relieved Shepard to discover that most of the injuries were bumps and bruises, easily shrugged off, bandaged up and easily healed. That was why she found herself washing the hands of her under-armor mesh to make sure she had all the blood off.

She located Nyreen and Aria—the latter of whom seemed to be stalking the former—and groaned inwardly. If she thought working with Aria was going to be difficult—and, to be fair, Aria had been ridiculously cooperative—then having Nyreen _and_ Aria in the same unit was like trying to get oil and water to mix. It only worked if you shook it hard, and only worked for a little while after the agitation stopped.

Shepard climbed up onto the command stage to stand beside Aria.

"Done worrying over bumps and bruises?" Aria asked.

"I was going to ask if you were okay, but I think I'll just save my breath," Shepard responded dryly.

"Thanks for lending a hand, Captain," Nyreen announced, looking away from Aria.

"Not a problem." It was good to do some good, and better still not to have to stand around with nothing to do.


	354. Ripples

Her muscles ached and Shepard was beginning to feel the niggling need for a ration bar and a nap. She wondered if she had the twenty minutes or two hours that were usual. She didn't fool herself into thinking she had the six she was beginning to feel she needed.

She shook herself mentally. A ration bar and a combat nap and she'd be ready to go again. Part of her reason for letting Aria and Nyreen confer without her was the hope that by the time she was called in to play referee the two women would have worn themselves out enough or annoyed one another so thoroughly that the interposition of a cool head and a detached point of view would have traction.

Watching the drama between them, she wondered what kind of personal drama would be waiting for her back in Citadel space. She just _knew_ Alenko would want to talk again…for better or worse, although their chat in the cab, however stilted, suggested things _might_ not be as bad as Shepard anticipated.

Shepard shook herself. It was just tiredness and hunger. She took a sip from her canteen and looked for a corner into which she could install herself. She was so glad she'd slept while she could before this venture started.

"Captain!"

Shepard turned abruptly at the high-pitched nasal voice. Salarian, she knew that much without turning around. When she finished turning the salarian was in front of her. He hastily grabbed her hand and began shaking it vigorously as if congratulating her for something. It wasn't strange for her to be recognized, but it was strange to find her hand being pumped so energetically by such a happy salarian…or anyone, really.

"You don't remember me," the salarian noted. He didn't sound disappointed or as if she ought to. He was merely stating a fact.

Shepard furrowed her eyebrows. Now that she looked at him… "No, I know you…" she just needed to go through her list of salarians because she was fairly sure she _had_ seen him before.

"Maelon Heplorn," the salarian clarified.

Shepard's muscles tensed involuntarily as the details surrounding that name came back. "Yes, I do remember you." And in no good way…though she had to separate her dislike of the man from the facts: his research _had_ helped Bakara survive. Mordin made it clear, in his own way, that without Maelon's research data Bakara would have died on the table and one of the strong voices of reason amongst the krogan would have fallen silent. "You were Mordin's protégé."

Maelon nodded. "How…how is he?"

"Dead."

Maelon looked shocked, as though someone had just sucker punched him. "Dead? How-how can he be dead?" The man looked so appalled that Shepard felt herself soften. Maelon's had been one of the worst kinds of cruelty: the kind that wasn't actuated by any cruel purpose or by simple ambition. Like many, he'd lost track of methodology when the goal proved elusive. In some ways it was like that with many of Cerberus' cells…and David's voice echoed in the back of her head.

' _It all seemed so harmless._ '

…except that Gavin Archer had been a creature of ambition and grasped at the first straw that presented itself; Maelon had the altruistic desire to do good, and it had blinded him by degrees as its pursuit twisted.

She shook herself. Archer was probably dead—no great loss there—and even if he wasn't the chances of running into him were so low as to be negligible.

"Yes. On Tuchanka, making sure the cure deployed properly." The words rasped at her, bringing a wave of new thoughts that were, in some ways, easier to deal with than the nebulous and pointless hatred she entertained for Archer.

It took effort to shove Mordin's death into a compartment and lock it up. She immediately had to do the same with Thane's, because the deaths of her comrades seemed to tug on one another, pulling them up in sequence. Both had made the decision of how they wanted to go: while doing something they thought worthwhile.

Knowing it didn't help those who survived them, much.

"Oh…" Maelon bowed his head. "Dr. Solus was a great man."

"He was." He'd also been a good friend, even if she couldn't call him a close one.

Silence fell and Maelon grew more and more nervously twitchy until he finally broke it, wringing his hands. "Captain…my research, the research you saved…did it…did it…help?"

"Yes. It did." She put a stop to her own thoughts with the finality of 'some good came of it, after all—let it go.' And Bakara hadn't harbored any particular ill-feeling towards Maelon—she'd even said she would have done it again. If Bakara could take that stance then she, Shepard, had no right to bear a grudge.

Well, thankfully no one would ever have to go through something like that again. Not for the genophage, at least.

"Oh…" Maelon seemed to melt to about two thirds of his proper size in his relief. "Oh, that's good to know."

"Yeah," Shepard took a slow breath and let it out. "So…what are you doing here?" It was a less heavy subject, though in replaying her memories of the events on Tuchanka she found his presence on Omega reasonably logical.

Maelon's skin changed tone slightly, or rather the dappling of it became more pronounced for a moment. She supposed it was the salarian equivalent of a blush. "On Tuchanka I asked Dr. Solus what I was supposed to do. He said go to Omega—they needed clinics. Doctors. After Cerberus arrived, I…well. You understand: aliens supplying medical assistance are inconvenient. But when the Talons started resisting, I figured I could help…so here I am," Maelon shrugged.

"We'll take all the hands we can get. It's good to have you." She clapped him on the shoulder as she might have done for one of her own crewmen. It was the least she could do.


	355. Collateral Damages

" _That's_ your plan?" Nyreen demanded harshly, quivering from head to foot.

Aria looked away from the recorder and arched her eyebrows as if to inquire whether this angry demand was really leveled at _her_.

"Throw civilians at Cerberus?" Nyreen clarified, as though Aria was simply slow in the head, not being archly condescending.

It got a reaction, though only a small one.

Shepard leaned on the terminal podium, regarding the datapad of things she could expect to see—mostly intel provided by Nyreen.

Cerberus. Mechs. More mechs. And…adjutants. Shepard frowned at the entry. The hell was an adjutant? That was new.

" _Anything_ is better than being locked up like an animal waiting for slaughter," Aria answered, with an edge that made Shepard look up, wondering if that wasn't experience speaking.

"I know what you're up to, Aria," Nyreen bristled. "And I. Don't. Like. It."

"Hey, that thing about girlfriend drama? Applies in the FOB as well as on the battlefield," Shepard announced loudly, though she sighed inwardly. If this was what broken relationships did to a dynamic, then she wasn't sure she wanted to go back and face her own. Then again…her relationship was mending and this one had had time to stew.

"I imagine _you_ have an opinion in this? Why don't you share it while we're all airing our points of view," Aria said with an acidic sarcasm that made Shepard smile.

"I do." And she'd have to be careful how she said it or she'd be smack in the middle of an 'I'm right, you're wrong—the _expert_ says so' conversation. "I've seen urban ground war like this, on the side the civilians were standing on."

Not her fondest memories, either. The situation seemed worse once she had information from other sources to give scope to what she'd only seen as little chunks and pieces from her groundside position. That overhead view left her painfully aware of how easily she could have been killed and how likely an outcome that had been. An outcome she and more than a few others had defied.

"You _can-not_ take the civilians out of the equation—" Shepard held up a hand to forestall the turian. " _Not_ because you're forcing them into a bad situation but because many of them won't. Be. Kept. Out. To a _degree_ ," she glared at Aria in case the asari felt like interrupting. "Aria is right: this is their home. And civilians are braver when someone else starts something. I admire you for wanting to keep people safe, Nyreen, but ultimately it's _their choice_ whether to bunker down, run away, or stand and fight. That is two thirds of human history right there: when do you fight and when do you not?"

It was Nyreen's turn to study Shepard, with those bright almost unblinking eyes. "Why do I have the feeling that when you and Aria discuss civilian involvement you aren't really discussing the same thing?"

"I'm not looking for shock troops. There are only a few things braver and tougher than a civilian pushed to the point of protecting his or her home. If you take that choice away from them, you weaken them in the long run. And, depending on the civilian, you may not have saved someone you meant to. If they want to run, by all means get them the hell out of the way. But if they want to fight…get the hell out of _their_ way. Now, talk to me about adjutants. I haven't seen these before."

Shepard studied Nyreen's delicate features as she made her change of topic. Nyreen reminded her so much of Garrus in so many ways…except where Garrus was motivated by fire and ideals Nyreen was motivated by fear _for_ her ideals, as if she though they could be smashed or taken away.

The great paralytic had taken root in the turian's soul and that never boded well.

She couldn't have picked a better subject to change the topic with.

"I have," Aria said, taking the datapad from her and grimacing—a grimace with a touch of unease. "They're a nightmare."

"They eviscerate their victims' DNA and turn them into more adjutants," Nyreen said quietly. "It's…ugly."

Shepard's eyes widened as she looked at the disgusting Reaper-thing.

"They're not real Reapers, if that's what you're thinking," Aria noted.

Shepard looked up.

"They're a Cerberus project."

"Which they lost control of," Nyreen said darkly.

"Story of Cerberus' life," Shepard growled. "What's the spread like?"

"If they're loose, virulent. Like I said, they can convert their victims into adjutants themselves," Nyreen answered. "We haven't seen any for some time, so they must be bottled up somewhere." She shifted uneasily. "If you push Petrovsky too hard, he's bastard enough to release them to give us something serious to worry about. Just so you know."

"He's not going to jeopardize his hold on the station until it looks like we're going to take it from him," Shepard answered with confidence. "And I don't think he's crazy enough to release something with a virulent spread without a way to bring them back under control."

"Seconded," Aria answered.

Nyreen frowned at Aria, and Shepard was sure she was wondering if Aria mightn't be so principled as to keep something like that under lock and key.

"What I want to know is, if he did get them locked down, why he didn't corral and vent them. It's what I would have done."

"That's the million credit question, isn't it?" Nyreen asked darkly.

Shepard thought she could answer it. Control. He hadn't given up on bringing them into lockstep with the rest of Cerberus' Reaper knockoffs. Keep the old ones until a control mechanism was perfected then deploy it to the old ones.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have civilians to evacuate. We'll continue this discussion later," Nyreen declared before starting off.

"You know something," Aria said flatly. "Spill."

"I think Petrovsky's making a leash. Best we get this over with before he finishes it."


	356. Interference

Alenko was starting to feel something more acute than mild anxiety on Shepard's behalf. She had disappeared several days ago, with barely a word to him or Garrus. She hadn't been heard from since. Not even a little squib of text letting anyone know she was alright or when she planned to be back, or anything.

In this war torn galaxy, he was starting to worry.

It also seemed as though his former association with Shepard was coming back to haunt him…or maybe it was just his application to now-Councilor Burns for permission to put two Spectres on the same mission.

His argument, that Shepard made things look easy because she was trained to, that she would never show weakness or ineffectiveness until she fell flat on her face because she overstretched herself, had been met with sympathy. Shepard _was_ the tip of the spear as far as the Alliance was concerned, and the Council _did_ rely on her rather heavily to rally the galaxy while they were involved with…other things.

Alenko hadn't missed the pause of disapproval in Burns' tone when he said that. It was nice having a Councilor who really did seem to have his Spectres' backs. After finding himself being played for a fool by Udina, Alenko wasn't quite to trust politicians…but he'd known Burns before the man got to the Citadel.

"Go ahead and tell them one more time," Burns said wearily, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Alenko narrowly avoided asking why this should be any different from the last five times he'd been asked where Shepard was. People seemed to assume that, because they'd served together before, he knew better than anyone else where she'd gone.

The truth was, he hadn't been back on the Normandy since the day Burns visited it.

"I'm sorry, Councilors, but Shepard didn't tell me where she was going or why—just that she was going to be gone for a few days. She didn't even tell her second where she was going." Garrus had asked if Shepard said anything about her destination to Alenko. Upon hearing he was as in the dark as Garrus was, the turian traded promises with him: if one heard from Shepard, he'd let the other know.

But, so far, not a peep, and it had been several days.

Councilor Irissa's mouth grew thin, disapproval etched in every haughty line of her face.

"I'm sure that whatever Shepard is doing is for the greater good. I didn't think the Council felt it necessary to keep their Spectres on such short leashes," Burns put in mildly.

"Shepard's case is rather…unusual," Quentius said, also frowning.

"Shepard was Special Forces before she became a Spectre," Burns responded. "If she's being so tight-lipped and quiet, I'm sure it's because she felt that it was too delicate to risk word getting out about what she was going to do. Or," his pleasant smile took on a tone of menace, "are you suggesting she's selected now as the time to go off the reserve?"

"I didn't realize you were familiar with the Spectre, Councilor," Irissa said primly.

"I happen to owe my life to said Spectre," Burns answered, tone hardening. "She talked me safely out of a very tense situation. I have great faith in her abilities, and in her motivations. I don't fail to realize that safeguarding my life complicated the mission in question."

Alenko remembered that mission, too.

"Spectre Shepard will report in when she can, or when she feels able to do so without compromising her operation, whatever it is. Should she contact me, I will let this Council know as soon as possible. But until then, I suggest that nothing is gained by stewing and worrying over why she isn't on the Citadel every time we turn around."

Irissa really didn't like this, but it was Esheel who came to Burns' support. "The Human Councilor is quite correct," she said flatly. "Shepard is a valuable asset, but she is hardly our _only_ asset. And it is traditional to allow a Councilor to manage his or her species' Spectres."

"Thank you, Councilor Esheel," Burns inclined his head.

The salarian gave a twitch of her own head, which could be acceptance of the gratitude, or dismissal of same.

Within minutes, the holograms of the other Councilors were gone.

Burns pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please don't mind Irissa. I get the feeling she's one of those people who simply likes things to remain where she puts them when situations become…well, when things are the way they are at the moment."

"I kind of got that impression, too."

"After this meeting, I don't think anyone will complain if I allow you to partner up with Shepard. Frankly…" Burns trailed off.

"Frankly, I missed my apprenticeship," Alenko finished flatly. Shepard missed hers, but only because he preceptor ended up dead. In his case, his appointment had been a stunt of Udina's, and it left his stomach boiling with bile.

"If she doesn't mind the extra hands, I'll be happy to run any further interference," Burns said. He leaned on his desk. "…you haven't heard anything since the last time I asked, have you?"

"Not a peep, but her second said he'd pass along anything he got. Keep us in the loop," Alenko answered.

Burns nodded. "I know that dealings with my predecessor can't have been easy for Shepard," he observed unexpectedly. "Is there anything I can do to…to show I choose to deviate from precedent?" He studied Alenko's face earnestly. "I want to help, however I can."

Alenko considered, marveling at the apparent growth and change in Burns' character. "I think that all you can do is prove you've got her back. It might take time to get used to the idea that she doesn't have to watch her step as closely around her superiors as she does around the enemy, but I think that would go a long way."

Burns nodded. "I can do that. Thank you."


	357. Maps and Charts

Aria T'Loak had a headache. It thrummed and throbbed in a weird place and did nothing to her temper. She'd expected working with Shepard to be a bit difficult simply on the basis of personality and ideological differences, but those could have been overcome. They were both professional enough for that.

Having Nyreen added to the mix however, and she felt like she was wading through thigh-deep mud; it wasn't just Nyreen's ideals—silly ideas for a turian of all people to harbor—or residue from their old relationship. The fact was that Nyreen was being contrary on purpose and Aria knew why: the turian found her presence unnerving.

' _I'm not_ you _, Aria. And I wouldn't want to be._ '

' _Are you sure? 'Cause that's not what_ I'm _seeing_.'

Aria shook off the recollection. So, Nyreen hadn't managed to get her sense of identity back. If she had, she wouldn't be so hot and cold, balking at every little thing even when she didn't have to as if to remind everyone—herself included—that she and Aria weren't in the least bit similar.

Thank goodness for Shepard, though from the way Shepard had begun squinting all the time she was feeling that resistance, too. Nevertheless, Shepard seemed to be handling Nyreen fairly well. At the very least she got the turian moving again every time she balked. Aria doubted she would have had that kind of success.

Aria had the suspicion Shepard would eventually turn those tactics on her in reverse, try to slow her down if Shepard thought she was barreling around like a krogan hopped up on stims and confined in a small place. Good luck with that.

Part of her wondered how Shepard would explode if she reached her tolerance levels. It might be interesting. Counterproductive, but interesting. The ones who kept it all inside under lockdown were always interesting when they exploded.

"And that releases the civilians," Shepard mused, frowning at the hologram of Omega as she mindlessly spooned whichever ration pack she'd gotten into her mouth. She did it with a kind of accustomedness that Aria decided had to be a military thing.

She looked at her own, aware that she needed to replenish calories…but the stuff was so damn nasty. Hell, the headache was probably due to burning more energy than she took in.

"Use the Tabasco sauce," Shepard advised, gesturing with her spork, "that's what it's for."

No, that was what asari-manufactured rations were for. Unfortunately, the asari military industrial complex wasn't as prolific and humans' and turians'. Grudgingly, Aria added a little of the sauce, then a little more. It masked the flavor but didn't change the fact that it was unpleasant.

"Cerberus will have a million fires to put out. Talons as frontline fodder, civilians everywhere else."

"I've seen battlefield fodder. The Talons aren't it. Maybe try not to compromise your alliance before it takes off."

Aria frowned at her. "I've learned not to put too much stock in trust and goodwill."

"There's a time and a place for everything," Shepard responded, more moderately than Aria expected. Then again, Shepard wasn't stupid.

"Tell you what, I'll take it under advisement."

"Fair enough. What are all these dark spots?" Shepard pointed with her spork.

"They're powered-down sectors. See this? It's a reactor in the bowels of the mine," Aria pointed it out. "Petrovsky's siphoning power off it. At least, that's what Ahz says." She indicated the salarian who had, until that moment, pretended not to be listening.

"It's true," Ahz interjected. "And, more than that, it's cut off by further forcefields. Getting in isn't going to be easy. Hell, it may not even be feasible."

"This way." Shepard reached up, zooming the hologram and drawing a path through it. "It takes us through one of the powered-down areas, but it's a straight shot."

"This is a processing plant for one of the mines," Aria said, frowning at the shape. "Powered down, no forcefields. Are you afraid of the dark, Shepard?"

"Not particularly. It's the things _in_ the dark that sometimes make me nervous," she answered.

It struck Aria that Shepard's assumption of a bland veneer was simply grease on the wheels. With Nyreen gone, there certainly hadn't been as much bickering. Part of her wondered if Shepard found this tactic good for dealing with her or if the captain simply wasn't going to take off and put on this cooperation facilitating façade. Probably the latter, given Shepard's personality. It took less energy, and they'd need that soon.

"It's a good route, nice catch."

"It's also the only unguarded route," Shepard continued, eating mechanically as she scowled at it. "I've met Petrovsky's ilk before—rear echelon leadership who actually manages to be good at it. He's the sort who plays campaigns like a game. You stimulated the populace—now it's his turn. Best we pretend he's shepherding us somewhere we need to go but not where we'll want to be."

"An ironic turn of phrase," Aria noted. "Since you seem to have so much insight, recommendations?" It was easy to see that Shepard was giving the matter some very serious thought, taking advantage of the lull to sift her ideas.

"I'd like to take an army but that route's not going to admit one," Shepard mused, shaking her head slowly. "We're limited to a small force. Best we take a little extra time to prepare before we go in there. And a lot of extra ammo. Like I said: the dark's not a problem, it's the things in it."

"At best, Cerberus drones waiting for us. At worst…" Aria shivered inwardly, knowing that the only reason Shepard could be so calm about the adjutants—which scared even her—was because she'd never been up close to one. At worst Petrovsky would filter adjutants across their path. If the adjutants managed to convert them, he only needed to lock the place back down. If they managed to cut through the adjutants…he'd have something else ready.


	358. Courtesy Call

"Shepard! Where the _hell_ have you been?!" Garrus hissed as soon as he and Vega arrived in the communications suite. Half his anger was sheer relief: she'd been out of contact for days, and looked as if she'd recently been in a fight.

" _Busy,_ " she answered wearily, running a hand through her hair. " _I don't know how long this channel will stay open—things are kind of tense right now. What's up with you?_ "

"The Council is breathing down Alenko's neck about where you are. I don't suppose you're going to tell _me_?"

" _Come on, Garrus. If I didn't tell you earlier, why would I change my mind, now?_ "

"Because you look like someone rubbed your face into the concrete and might want backup?"

Shepard chuckled, prodding several bruises. " _I've had worse during training evolutions with the N-program._ " The hologram fluxed, but restabilized. " _Sorry. There's a comm lockdown I'm working around._ "

"Does this op have anything to do with why Aria T'Loak's not lording over Purgatory anymore?" Vega asked quietly.

Shepard looked at him, but didn't answer the question.

That was Shepard: she wouldn't lie, so she wouldn't say anything. That, at least, explained where she was _and_ what she was doing: she was helping Aria take Omega back. It was probably Aria's preference that Shepard leave her team behind—Aria would consider _him_ unsavory company on principle, and Alenko too, being both a Spectre and a fairly decent guy.

"Okay, so what do you want me to tell Alenko so he can tell the Council? Apparently, with the exception of Burns, they're feeling a little clingy," Garrus sighed, rubbing his scarred cheek thoughtfully.

" _Tell him I made contact, that I'm alive and well, and that I'm putting my old training to use,_ " she answered after a thoughtful pause. " _How's he doing, incidentally?_ "

"He's fine. Working with Burns a lot. I think he'll be released from the babysitting duties Udina had him on soon. Pretty sure he's worried about you."

" _Can't very well tell him not to do that, can I?_ "

"People worry, Lola. It's part of the human condition," Vega put in mildly, looking smug that he'd pinned both her destination and her mission all on his own.

Shepard rolled her shoulders, and the hologram fizzled again. " _Crap._ _Alright, I'm out of this network before I get booted out. I should be back in less than a week._ " The call cut promptly, leaving Garrus and Vega contemplating the silence.

During Shepard's absence, Vega had attached himself to Garrus, the way he attached himself to Shepard, ever ready to back up the commanding officer. "So, you really think Omega?" Garrus asked.

"She didn't say she wasn't there. And if she wasn't, she'd have said so," Vega answered.

Garrus nodded. Yes, that did sound like Shepard. Like a turian, she didn't like to lie, especially not to people who trusted her. Better to maintain a conspicuous and prudent silence. "Well, Alenko will be glad to hear she finally checked in."

"Omega means urban warfare. I hope Aria has an army. Or two," Vega said, wrinkling his nose.

So did Garrus. He knew Omega, and he knew Shepard. Ten to one, she was getting the most organized criminal element under control to use _them_ as an army. He wasn't sure which of the gangs had risen to the top when Blue Suns, Eclipse, and Blood Pack found themselves leaderless, particularly when Shepard delivered proof they'd been planning to gun for Aria herself once Archangel was dead. The reprisal probably hadn't been pretty, and most likely left the three merc bands tattered and ineffectual.

"Shepard's done urban warfare before," Garrus shrugged, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

"I know that," Vega answered robustly. "So…you want to let the crew know she checked in, so they can stop worrying so hard?"

"How are they holding up?" Garrus asked. As the person Shepard would most likely contact, the crew put on their brave faces for him. Vega, however, was one of them and could keep his fingers on the pulse of the crew's morale.

"Worried, but not too worried. Well, except Cortez; I think he's about to start chewing the furniture. I think he doesn't like trusting her transport to who knows what crappy pilot might be out there. He's a do-it-yourselfer about transport," Vega shrugged.

"We'll let them know at dinner," Garrus decided.

"You really think it'll take another week to get the station back under control?" Vega asked, frowning.

"No, I think she just gave us a number we could cite." He hoped it wouldn't take a week. Surely it wouldn't…after all, it hadn't taken a week to scrub the last of the Cerberus presence from the Citadel, and the Citadel was larger than Omega.

Garrus arranged his expression into something less grim, then punched Alenko's frequency into his omnitool.

" _Alenko—hey, Garrus._ "

"Shepard just called. She's fine, doesn't feel too far in over her head, and is hoping to be back in a week or so," Garrus answered.

" _Thanks. That's good to hear,_ " Alenko breathed, looking relieved. " _She didn't say where she was?_ "

Garrus shook his head. "Not a peep."

"… _okay. Well, thanks for the heads-up. I appreciate it._ _Was there anything else?_ "

"Nope. Got off the line with her, gave you a call. I'll let you know if she makes contact again."

" _Thanks, I'd appreciate it. If she does, tell her…_ " Alenko paused, teetering on whatever it was he wanted to say. " _Tell her…_ "

"Don't worry, I know what to tell her from you," Garrus said when Alenko stalled a second time. Maybe it was for the best, since Vega didn't know Shepard and Alenko used to be a couple. That was a personal detail, after all.

Vega was sharp, though. He might figure it out on his own, like he figured out where Shepard wandered off to so secretly and on her own.

" _You're the best, Garrus._ "

"I know. See you later." With that, Garrus severed the call.


	359. Lurking in the Shadows

"I ran Omega, I didn't work the mines myself…ugh…" Aria's low sound of distaste was almost unnoticeable, but the air of her passing stirred the reek of decay.

The light spilling over her shoulder as Aria and Nyreen slipped through the door Shepard wedged open revealed a single Cerberus corpse. It lay slumped against the railing of a catwalk as if thrown there. Deep holes showed in several of the plates, and the blood on the white armor was dried out. Blood lay around it and, in the blood, a single footprint to something…bipedal.

"No," Nyreen frowned at Aria's back. "You had indentured servants for—spirits!" The turian gagged and retched violently, gurgling in her throat as the odor hit her.

Shepard let the doors slid shut behind them, turning on her omnitool for its warm golden glow before approaching the body. The smell was incredible and nauseating.

"There're more," Aria said, voice muffled by the hand over her mouth and nose.

"More?" Nyreen quavered.

Shepard shot a look at the turian, found the woman rigid with fine tremors running through her.

"Relax. They're all Cerberus," Aria growled.

"And ripped to shreds." The one by the door must have been the last one of the group to be killed and the thing that killed him hadn't been interested. The rest were shredded, plates sheared free, flesh ripped to pieces, cables comingling with ropes of severed muscle. It was like the work of an animal that didn't know how to kill and ended up doing it anyway, or failed to understand that its victim couldn't handle rough treatment and had again overdone it.

Or maybe it just didn't care.

"Adjutants," Nyreen said, pointing to the footprint, her biotics flaring instinctively.

" _Maybe_. Right now, it's just a big footprint. Points to you, Shepard," Aria growled, though she regarded the footprint warily.

Shepard nodded.

Petrovsky had left them an invitation and they'd taken it through lack of options. It was a brilliant plan; she could admit it even if she was the one who had to deal with it. All sentients entertained a wariness of the dark, because in the dark were things that had successfully hunted previous generations. The back of the mind remembered that time when an individual's species had been a prey species. Even turians. Thus did the pitch black of a place without warmth or light play on the nerves and senses of those exposed to it.

It wasn't really fear of the dark. It was fear of things _in_ the dark—real or imagined. Even the faint creaks of Omega's infrastructure, which Shepard had heard previously, suddenly seemed too loud and sinister. Was that the sound of a catwalk groaning under the weight of a moving body, or was it just the metal settling? Was that darker patch of darkness something's shadow, or just a trick of the eyes?

She had to give the man credit for his mind games: whether there really were any adjutants present was a moot point. If there were, at least there was something they could fight. If not, all they had was paranoia to fray their nerves and rasp against confidence. She had the impression that she and Aria would prefer to fight adjutants than stay jumping at shadows; she also had the impression that Nyreen would prefer jumping at shadows to an actual altercation.

Petrovsky had put them squarely in a pressure cooker and now sat back to see what they did. She had to give the bastard points.

"Come on. There's no sense just standing around," Shepard said simply. She hated the light on the end of a rifle, but in this case it didn't matter. Anything Reaper-like didn't really need an 'I'm here!' beam to see a person. They homed in even in the dark, so the lights wouldn't do more harm than good.

But Shepard liked the warm tone of her omnitool and the little halo it created.

The air was still and hot as they moved through it, their passage stirring up the odors of death and eezo. She had little to do with raw eezo, and the dust of it in the mine smelled nothing like the faintly ozone smell of the biotics she'd worked with. It was a stronger smell, far less pleasant.

The sounds of their breathing were too loud, especially Nyreen's quick intake, almost a flutter of oxygen exchange.

Shepard had picked up that Nyreen had seen adjutants in action and that the encounter had scarred her. It was clear that this pressure cooker of Petrovsky's was having a profound effect on the turian while it squashed her and Aria into the alert attentiveness of the creature that both stalks and is stalked.

She wondered if he'd had weakening them one by one in mind. He knew Aria. It was safe to assume he knew something about Nyreen. He knew her from her records—Cerberus' or whatever Cerberus could get out of the Alliance.

He'd have something to slow Aria up or work on whatever weaknesses resided underneath that blue scalp.

Maybe he thought she, herself, would be unnerved by the dark? But this wasn't deep space. It wasn't cold and airless. She couldn't fall _up_ into anything. All she had were the ancestral imprints of a time when her own species hadn't been master of its world.

Unless there really were a few adjutants in here there was no Reaper presence. And nothing scared her like Reapers did. Fortunately for her, she hated being afraid and fear quickly gave way to the need to do something to alleviate helplessness.

Sweat slipped across her skin, dampening her hair and leaving her clammy. It was a betrayal of her body against what her mind told her; her body was afraid, even if her mind pushed against fear by using logic. Gooseflesh crept up her arms and down her back.

It was just darkness.

And even if there was something lurking…she wasn't alone or unarmed.


	360. Animal Instinct

Nyreen watched Shepard plunking away at the control board. The first thing the woman had done was return light—blessed _light_ —to the area. Now that she could see everything and see it all clearly, her nerves began to quiet.

The darkness had been terrible; the stillness that amplified sound had made a frazzled mess of her nerves. The way odors—particularly the reek of the dead—had seemed all the stronger for having been undisturbed for so long had done nothing for her courage. The human and the asari were lucky their noses weren't quite so keen. It had taken everything not to stop and vomit more than once during the journey through the dark.

That kind of reaction was bad for a biotic—it meant they lost undigested calories and one had to put them back somehow. She shivered, her biotics ceasing their nervous crawl across her carapace.

The comforting thing was that Shepard looked as though she'd gone swimming, she'd perspired so much; Aria's movements were twitchy and her blue skin pasty with apprehension. So she wasn't the only one who hadn't fared well while traversing the complex. She'd begun to be afraid she was.

"That's that," Shepard announced. "Ladies, we are back in business."

Aria sighed, looking around. "When this is over, there will be a lot of repairs to make." She didn't sound as though she relished the prospect. Then again, when a natural disaster rolled over someone's house they didn't relish cleaning up…but were still grateful the house was standing.

"I hope you'll focus on the civilian areas first," Nyreen remarked.

Aria took a slow, calming breath—or so it seemed to Nyreen. "You are relentless," Aria said with the cold control of someone hanging onto her temper so she didn't lash out simply because it was convenient.

That was new.

"One thing we have in common." Nyreen almost managed to grin and found a slight smile tweaking the corners of Aria's mouth.

The moment was shattered when the door nearest the console exploded inwards, wrenched off its hinges by a charging shape. The adjutant was on its feet, savagely looking at the cluster of organics and letting off that hoarse warbling scream that chilled Nyreen's blood.

"Spirits!" Nyreen almost screamed.

Shepard didn't wait, didn't hesitate. She brought her rifle up to her shoulder and began drilling the thing in controlled bursts. "What do you want, an invitation?" Shepard roared. "Unload on the bastard!" Which she immediately proceeded to do.

"Don't let it get close to you! Nyreen?! Nyreen! Get your head out back on your shoulders!" Aria snarled, her biotics flaring as she pushed that adjutant back but shot out a hand to grab Nyreen's hood, pulling on it.

Nyreen stepped back, her guts pulling to tight coils as she raised her rifle. The action was automatic, as was the squeeze of the trigger, as was watching the rounds fly downrange to join Shepard's barrage…

…but her heard fluttered rather than beat, her plates began venting heat, her biotics flared but did nothing more.

All she could see was the adjutant and all she could hear were old screams and smell the reek of blood. The change happened so fast, flesh warping as the men she knew disappeared and became monsters…

"Nyreen!" Shepard's bark was almost in her ear. "Wake the hell up!"

Nyreen blinked, found that she had stopped squeezing the trigger.

The adjutant slowed down, gushing white, viscous fluid from the plethora of bullet holes, but it wasn't nearly dead. It screamed at them, biotic barrier flickering as it deflected most of the ammunition Shepard sent towards it.

With a grunt of effort Nyreen pulled on her biotics and sent a shockwave flying at the adjutant. The action broke the paralysis, but the back of her mind still screamed for her to do the sensible thing: grab the others and _run_.

The adjutant staggered, then stumbled again as Nyreen hit it with another shockwave.

A second later, a beam of yellow light zipped towards that adjutant. This time the scream was of pain and not of threat.

Nyreen glanced to the side. Shepard had unfastened the odd weapon she'd been carrying and was now sending bursts of light toward the adjutant with the calm precision of someone well trained and familiar with her weapon. It wasn't one Nyreen had ever seen, but it certainly made short work of the adjutant's barrier.

Shepard's calm was not reassuring. Maybe fighting Reapers was so much a part of her life that nothing really surprised her or maybe she just didn't appreciate the danger the thing represented. Ignorance must truly be bliss. She wished she could see that shambling horror as just another ugly opponent.

Nyreen raised her rifle again, unloading rounds, counting them in her head in order to stay focused on the present and on the situation. She could not afford to drift off like that again, to indulge impulse rather than chosen action.

"We've almost got it!" Aria shouted, adjusting her biotic field to twist and compress, squeezing the injured adjutant mercilessly. Bones crunched and weak spots in the skin burst, gushing nastily.

It made Nyreen feel sick that of the three of them she was the only one who was having trouble acting. Aria knew what those things were, what they did to people…and yet the asari seemed much better than she had in the silent darkness of the plant through which they'd come.

Nyreen cringed inwardly, even as the adjutant fell and Aria slammed it around a few times to make sure it really was dead.

"Well, now we know," Aria said, looking at the oozing corpse with distaste.

"Yeah, now we know," Shepard agreed, calmly lifting her omnitool to take a few holos and readings.

Nyreen swallowed; her heart wasn't slowing down and the fine tremors were back. Aria cast her a _look_ and she knew that the asari was just waiting to sail into her about her hesitation.


	361. Power of Mind

Aria glared at Petrovsky's hologram and was glad to see she wasn't the only one. "This isn't over until your next of kin can't _identify_ you," she snarled.

Petrovsky turned to her. " _I do love your bravado. But have the good sense to know when you are_ _beaten_ _._ "

"Oh, Oleg, you're breaking my heart," Shepard grinned wolfishly. "Because if that's what you think, you're so wrong."

It was hard to tell if Shepard was bluffing. Or maybe she was simply so accustomed to overcoming odds that this was just another Tuesday and, give her some time, she really would find a way not only out, but right up to Petrovsky's doorstep.

" _You've been neutralized_ ," he said cuttingly. " _And I can leave you there to rot. You might as well give up._ "

"Never!" Aria snarled. The idea of being trapped, penned in, forced into immobility at someone else's whim was more than she could stomach. Aria turned on her heel and marched over to the energy field. That stupid thing with its ugly amber hue…and it was between her and the creep who'd taken her station, her kingdom, away from her…. Rage made her tremble, made her biotics spark and fizzle but rage gave her power and focus.

"Aria?" Shepard asked levelly.

"I'm not going out like this!" Aria snarled and dug her hands into the energy field, protected only by her biotics. It was like trying to push through a wall, but the blue energy managed a tiny breach in the barrier keeping her _in_ when she wanted to be _out_. She shook and trembled from the effort, but managed to pry the hole in the energy field further apart.

"Aria, don't!" Nyreen yelped the instant she realized what Aria meant to do—was actually _doing_.

She hoped Shepard was quick with the plan, because she couldn't do this forever. It didn't take but seconds to know that concretely. There was too much juice in the barrier and she was a lot less well-powered than any energy field. But she could do this…whatever 'this' ended up being. All she could think was that she had to get _out_ and that meant…Shepard needed to do the tech thing. So she needed to make sure _Shepard_ could get out…

Aria gritted her teeth; rage was a great way to push one's limits or to surpass them entirely. Rage also beat back the fear that maybe she couldn't actually do this. Sweat dripped down her skin as her world began to narrow, tightening her range of perceptions to the most immediate issues.

The barrier she sought to break gave her fingers an itchy tingling feeling that was wholly unpleasant and which only served to irritate her further.

…damn Petrovsky and his stupid head games…

…and damn Shepard for playing them…

…and damn her for going along with them…

Just damn it all in general…

" _What the hell is she trying to do?_ " Petrovsky demanded, sounding appalled and disapproving, his voice faint and distorted by Aria's singular focus. Her breath came heavy as she struggled against the inexorable flow of energy between her and freedom.

"Get your damn eyes checked," Nyreen snapped as Shepard pointed out "you mean what the hell _is_ she doing?"

Shepard's and Nyreen's drifts drew closer as Aria forced the hole open wider, her biotics stuttering. She wasn't used to prolonged use and she certainly wasn't used to trying to tear open a wall with her bare hands. The idea of giving up, or letting the barrier snap back into place, was so repellant that she found extra reserves of will and power.

"Nyreen! Mechs!" Shepard barked.

The unpleasant tingle of an alien biotic field crawled across her skin as Nyreen reacted to the mechs' presence, relieving Aria of having to abandon the breech in Petrovsky's fortification in favor of watching her back.

Shepard grunted, a sound of effort, and one of the mechs popped and fizzled before rifle fire began barking away. She'd learned to distinguish between Shepard's shooting and Nyreen's shooting. Shepard fired in three round bursts and had a longer pause between bursts. Nyreen used the traditional turian two round burst and switched targets more quickly…but needed more than two slugs per target.

…and none of it mattered, because her head was about ready to split open along the scalp, the skin just peeling away from the bone and the bone cracking like Armali porcelain...

"Shepard! I can't hold this much longer!" Aria snarled, forcing the breech wide enough for a person to dive through. Her lungs felt like they had durasteel bands around them and she felt like there was a ticking bomb near where skull and neck joined.

Shepard didn't hesitate or ask for clarification. She threw herself through the breach and Aria, with a gasp, let the energy field snap back together.

The sudden loss of something against which to push made her feel lightheaded…and unless she was mistaken, her nose was going to start bleeding any minute. All that biotic energy moving through her with no point of focus made her shudder, her corona flaring erratically as she squashed the flow of power back to normal levels while trying to regain her sense of equilibrium.

She found it though, as slugs pinged off Nyreen's barrier.

Aria scrambled to her feet, grabbed her rifle and shouldered it. Mechs she could deal with. And Petrovsky had wandered off, presumably to harass Shepard. She would need a couple minutes to get her biotics back under control…and she found herself wishing she'd eaten that whole ration back at the operations center.

"How did you know you could do that?" Nyreen asked, sounding impressed and worried at the same time.

Aria sniffed against the sluggish would-be trickle of blood, hiking the sticky proof of overexertion momentarily back into place. The smell of her own blood suffused her olfactory nerves and coupled with all the physical and mental discomforts piling up on her left her feeling nauseous. "I didn't."


	362. Noisy

Shepard's hands danced over the interface, sweat trickling down her brow. She hadn't felt this hot and sticky in ages and had forgotten just how unpleasant it could be.

She shoved the discomfort aside. It seemed like ages since she'd needed her tech training for anything more complicated than forcing or sealing a door. It was a nice change, even if it felt a bit odd.

She caught the hum of Petrovsky's little projector drone but ignored it. If the drone had any combat capabilities she would have caught some indication of them by this point. No, he was simply using it to play head games. She had to give him points for the dark and the adjutants, but something she could see and quantify…he should have stuck to environmental-based head games.

" _You can't do this Commander_."

"Captain."

" _There's more at stake than you know._ "

Shepard merely snorted. Saren had said something like that, too, and he'd been right. Petrovsky, though…he was impotent, could only try to talk her out of action, or distract her so she would have to take the fast action rather than the best action. Knowing this put her a step ahead of him.

" _That reactor powers life support systems for dozens of wards across the station. Shut it down and thousands of people perish._ "

"Aria? Nyreen?" She didn't stop the interface. She didn't like it…but she could make that call. Apparently Petrovsky felt she wasn't up to making those kinds of decisions. She hadn't been sure she was either, after Bahak…but she hadn't come all this way to fail. If she failed, a lot more than thousands would die.

' _What if that's what it's going to take? The ruthless calculus of war?_ '

She hated collateral damage as a necessity…which was why she was soldier enough to push the metaphorical button when it had to be pushed.

Apparently Petrovsky thought she was too tenderhearted.

It was his mistake. The N-program didn't pass soft operatives; the tenderhearted didn't reach the seven rating.

" _Yes, and I don't care!_ " Aria snarled. " _Shut it down!_ "

" _No, don't!_ " Nyreen almost ran over Aria's command. " _Try rerouting power away from the force fields._ "

It would blow more than a few secondary systems, but a quick check showed she could do it….but only if she hurried.

Shepard took a deep breath. She'd done things like this before. She could do it again, now. "Hang tight down there."

" _Rerouting the power to other systems?_ " Petrovsky purred, the wry condescension in his tone flicking against Shepard's raw nerve endings.

" _Are you crazy or stupid?_ " Aria yelled. " _We're almost spent—Nyreen watch your flank!_ "

" _Is this really who you're working for, Shepard? You've had it out of her own mouth: she doesn't care who gets hurt as long as she gets her way._ "

That was rich coming from a Cerberus flunky. She wanted to hurl the words at him but knew better. She knew this dance, she'd performed it. Distraction through provocation. It took time to speak an answer. Speech gave him information or openings for how to plan his next remark. He had time that she didn't.

And honestly, she was so numb to the tone he was using, to having her allies or her own directives questioned that one more set of flapping gums didn't mean much.

" _What are you waiting for? Overload the reactor!_ " This time there was a note of tight control in Aria's tone that spoke of effort.

" _See? She'd throw away thousands of lives_ ," Petrovsky snapped his fingers. " _Just like that_."

Like he wouldn't.

Shepard's fingers few across the haptic interface. It took effort not to let her wrists and fingers tighten with apprehension and stress. Tight muscles in wrists and fingers slowed work.

" _Shepard! Nyreen's down!_ "

Shepard's fingers nearly stuttered in their quick flicks at the note of genuine distress in the asari's voice.

" _I'm stabilizing her but you can't reroute power in time! Hit the fucking overload._ _Now_ _._ "

" _This really shouldn't be that hard,_ " Petrovsky purred…but there was an edge in his tone that hadn't been there before. His tactic wasn't working. " _Maybe something is holding you back. Maybe, deep down, you're starting to think the galaxy would be better off without her. She's never going to learn. She's never going to change. Even if you 'win' today, Omega still loses._ "

Shepard punched confirmation and turned to face Petrovsky. "Or maybe I trust Aria to do what she does best: keep herself alive. And frankly…I'll take the devil I know."

Energy shivered and the reactor whined, then hissed softly as the sudden excess of energy dissipated. Secondary systems might be fried, but that was why they were secondary systems: they were expendable in emergencies.

"Smile, Oleg," Shepard grinned at the stony face of the hologram. "It's just a game." And she'd won this round. The twist of his mouth, as though he'd had something unpleasant shoved under his nose and was trying not to show it bothered him, proved it.

With that, she set off at a lope to rejoin Aria and Nyreen. "Everyone okay?" Shepard asked as soon as they had a blast door between them and the reactor chamber…or, more accurately, between them and any of the remaining mechs. Those things were nasty. She'd have given a lot for EDI's or Tali's expertise in dealing with them.

Aria gave her a look that would have stopped a train. "Despite your best efforts to kill me. Your soft heart almost cost me everything."

"If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead," Shepard noted evenly. She'd have been surprised if Aria hadn't been a little snappish—the risk had been very real. "You don't get to be 'queen' of Omega by being a pushover; I try to trust my ground team. How's that bullet wound, Nyreen?"

Nyreen snorted, grinning at her. "Worth it." Her omnitool flared and she manufactured a unit of omnigel, which she slathered onto the injury that had penetrated her armor. "See? Good as new."


	363. Null and Void

' _Nyreen, this is war. You can't stop senseless deaths. Save who you can, but remember our talk earlier._ '

Sometimes it was hard to tell whose side Shepard was on. A tiny voice in the back of Nyreen's mind knew Shepard was right—it was reminiscent of turian philosophies. Push against one group of them and they all pushed back. It was something the Reapers were dealing with, if the news trickling to Omega regarding Palaven was at all accurate.

But this wasn't Palaven or Hierarchy space. This was Omega and no matter how Aria painted it, or what Shepard thought about it, there were people here who weren't fighters and they were the ones Nyreen concerned herself with. Someone had to.

And that meant bringing this whole mess to a quick conclusion, which was why she moved stealthily along one of Omega's many hidden routes in order to study Afterlife and its outer security. Afterlife was a black box as far as anyone outside of Cerberus was concerned, and Nyreen had had enough black boxes for one day. The bullet wound still ached and burned, but less so since the medic had pulled the slug out and patched her up again.

Afterlife's sign still proclaimed that it was Afterlife…but the Cerberus logo rather spoiled the effect.

Her talons itched at being this close to her target. Petrovsky was a wary fellow. He knew not to show his face anywhere Cerberus didn't have a tight grip on, and with the force-fields down his grip on the asteroid was significantly loosened.

She wasn't the only one itching to get at Petrovsky. A mob—and she called them a mob because no one could call the ragtag assortment of fighters a unit—seemed to have tried to storm the place only to find themselves pinned by the Cerberus defenders. Some half dozen of the heavily armored drones stood arrayed on the steps leading up to the main entrance.

The mob was getting shredded, and there wasn't much she could do.

" _Nyreen! Come in!_ " Aria snapped over the radio link.

"Aria, nice of you to rejoin the party," Nyreen murmured.

" _Hold position. We're almost there._ "

" _Nyreen,_ " Shepard broke in, and Nyreen could almost hear the deprecatory look she levelled at Aria. " _How's it look from where you are?_ "

"It's ugly," she answered succinctly. "Afterlife's still secure. The civilians who tried to attack it are getting ripped to pieces." Of the original eight they were down to four.

Three.

" _Even if I were a fan of main entrances, this one's not one I'd want to use. Where are you, exactly?_ " Shepard asked.

"Looking at the front door. I've got about six Cerberus troopers on the doorstep. I think they'll head back inside once the slaughter's done." It was so senseless and so stupid. How could those people have thought they could just kick in the front door?

" _We're almost there. There's a docking bay access door opposite Afterlife. Join up if we pass you or meet us there. We'll figure something out._ "

That did seem the name of Shepard's game, but the on-the-fly planning never seemed to lack methodology.

Suddenly, without having killed the remaining civilians, the Cerberus troopers retreated. No sooner had the doors shut behind them, and another rabble appeared to relieve the first, then all the combatants stopped. The ones who had been pinned froze. Their complexions went pasty according to the convention of their species.

Nyreen looked down and, though the grating, saw a slow, lumbering mass, black and blue and hard to see from her position, making its way forward. The warbling scream chilled her blood and told her that Petrovsky had done exactly what she'd feared…which meant he wasn't afraid of a plague. That could only mean he had a way to bring the adjutants to heel when they'd finished mopping up his riot problems.

Spirits…

She watched the three adjutants lumber forward, heads and shoulder whipping about as they scented prey.

The civilians farthest from the simply broke rank and retreated—smart of them, on the whole.

The ones who were pinned, though…

' _Why can't you bring that same grit when adjutants attack? It's pathetic. You…tense up at the mere mention of those abominations—'_

' _Come on, Aria. Everyone's got something like that that.'_

' _I'm trying to_ _help_ _her. Call it tough love.'_

She appreciated Shepard's defense, but Aria was right. She froze, she stalled, she was too slow to react every time she heard those shambling horrors. The mention of them sent her adrenaline and terror pulsing through her veins instead of the blood that should have been there.

One of the adjutants leapt forward, bringing its victim crashing to the floor.

The screams were horrible. Nyreen forced her eyes open, eyes raking the scene. She had to stop the adjutants. She was the only one who could, she just needed…

…there. A strip of grenades on one of the dead troopers.

Her stomach coiled and churned as she stood up. "Aria, Shepard…don't wait for me." She turned off her radio link, severing the echoing demands for a status update.

She was turian, and she knew her duty.

Nyreen dropped from her vantage point and sprinted forward. She'd never been quite so grateful for the speed and sheer nimbleness inherent to her people. She grabbed the grenade belt in passing and raised her pistol, sending controlled bursts of fire at the three adjutants to make sure she had their attention.

They turned, preferring to deal with the threat than harmless prey.

She took a step back. Then another. Watched the remaining civilians sidle off and run as fast as they possibly could.

"Nyreen!"

Nyreen pulled the pins as fast as she could and erected a dome-shaped barrier, sealing herself, the adjutants and the coming explosion into a contained space. She looked back in the direction of Aria's voice to see Shepard and Aria skidding to a halt.

…and watched the asari's eloquent unusually candid expression until the—


	364. The Making of Regret

Author's Note: For those who celebrate it, it's Independence Day! Enjoy a couple extra chapters.

-J-

It wasn't often that Aria T'Loak wanted to scream. Usually she _did_ something about whatever was bothering her. In this case though, there wasn't much to do. She had one really good moment to look into Nyreen's eyes and plated face before the explosion filled the shell of dark energy which dissipated a second later, releasing the black smoke within.

"Damn," Shepard breathed, hot on Aria's heels as the asari sprinted over to the scorched and blackened walkway. Little fires burned and filled the air with the smell of burning adjutant…and maybe burning turian.

Aria was not a loving person. Life had taught her not to be. But she had cared for Nyreen. Some might say 'not enough,' but for Aria even a little bordered on too much. And Nyreen had known that.

Black hatred licked up her insides as she flexed a fist. She couldn't bring Nyreen back, she couldn't undo time…but she _could_ mash Oleg Petrovsky, whose fault this was, into a pile of pink _paste_.

"Aria," Shepard's tone held only warning, a warning not to do anything rash and stupid that she, Shepard, would have to untangle later. That this wasn't a time for flying off the handle.

Screw Shepard. This was _her_ asteroid. This was _her_ vendetta. And this was her kicking in Cerberus' door because that was what they were here to do. Wringing Petrovsky like a wet washcloth was just a bonus.

"That's _it_ ," Aria turned on her heel and sprinted forward, drawing back a fist. The doors blocking her from Afterlife, from her own little palace on this stupid little rock, crumpled under the rage-fueled blow. "Tell your boss I'm coming for him!" she snarled.

"Aria, wait!" This time there was alarm in the soldier's voice, but Aria ignored that too.

This had been a bad day to begin with, a bad several days, and she had finally reached the end of her tether. That smug bastard was literally a few hundred feet from here and she _was not_ going to give him the opportunity to get away. Because he absolutely would if given the chance and she couldn't bear the thought.

The corridor leading into the main chamber of Afterlife bounced as she ran, slamming Cerberus drones aside the way an excited child might tear through the wrapping paper on a gift. She practically exploded into the main chamber, eyes darting around for…

… _there_.

Standing in what used to be her office, overlooking a building whose interior she barely recognized, was Oleg Petrovsky, looking smug and condescending and damn it if she wasn't going to wipe that look off his face…

"Nyreen Kandros was a good soldier," Petrovsky observed. "It's a shame he had to die for your petty ambitions."

A ringing started in Aria's ears or maybe it was just the rush of blood in them. For _her_ ambitions? More like because he'd released monsters he had to know scared the shit out of Nyreen and left the tunnel vision-prone turian feeling she only had one option!

"You're a dead man," Aria snarled. She was going to kill that bastard and do it _slowly_. She didn't remember the last time she wanted to kill someone so badly. Usually she maintained a detached view of such matters but this time…

Forget detached views. This was personal.

Aria's biotics flared as she charged ahead.

"No, wait!" Shepard's voice had something akin to a screech in it. "Aw, hell…"

Aria jumped from the lip of the structure that had replaced the dance floor…

…and found herself hanging suspended, inextricably caught in a mass effect field. The idea of this kind of trap being here, as if he'd been waiting for her to come back, as if he'd expected to win even at the last minute, was intolerable. The fact that she'd walked—ran and jumped—into it made the situation even worse.

She let go of convention and screamed all her raged and frustration, yanking and thrashing against the restraints. It was worse than being stuck behind the energy barrier at the reactor. She was so close, so damn close to that smug bastard.

"That was remarkably predictable, Ms. T'Loak."

Aria redoubled her efforts to pull loose. Barring success at this she tried to swear at him but the rage and everything else seething in her guts choked her. She couldn't even formulate a threat.

"Now what, Petrovsky?" Shepard demanded flatly.

"Divide and conquer," Petrovsky answered as if this ought to have been obvious. More than that, he sounded so damn smug as he regarded her, stuck like she was. "You see, Kandros killed the adjutants we hadn't finished experimenting on."

And he talked about it like she was a throwaway resource. It galled Aria to think that this tool could pervert even the most selfless acts—and Aria wasn't one to praise selflessness, not being a big believer in it most of the time. But to hear Petrovsky talk like that, and Nyreen's ashes—her _ashes_ —not even cold…

"These…"

Aria's glare darted town as a door hissed open.

"…are fully under our control. The prototypes for our future army."

Cold fear doused the rage as the two adjutants ambled into the room while more Cerberus troopers streamed in.

"I seem to have taken your queen and your bishop and I believe this is checkmate," Petrovsky observed.

Shepard's chuckle was a sickly thing full of loathing. If she felt fear or anger, it was all submerged under the sheer disgust she felt for Petrovsky, Cerberus and Reapers. He'd just compiled two of the things she hated above all others into one place. Outnumbered or not, outmaneuvered to this point or not…Shepard was a scrapper.

"Lucky for me life doesn't take place on an eight-by-eight grid."

All Aria had to do was wait. Wait and be ready. She hated the idea, but bent to the necessity. Rather than watch whatever Shepard was doing, Aria glared at Petrovsky, tugging at her restraints every so often.


	365. Straws

It was less of a cold, precise fight than Shepard would have liked. She had Cerberus on one hand and adjutants on the other, seconds to figure out how to get Aria out of that contraption into which she'd so stupidly thrown herself and minutes to actually _get_ her loose.

She knew Petrovsky was watching her run around like a flurry of chaos and was probably enjoying the sight. She didn't really have time to care.

What she did have was a built-up tolerance against Reapers and Cerberus, a history of dealing with both, and so very much to lose.

But as soon as she'd fried enough of the feeds into Aria's prison—which seemed calibrated to repel bullets, because Aria took no damage despite being a perfect target—Aria tore out of the thing like a wet cat. With asari-grade biotics and a lot of rage Aria swung the battle out of Cerberus' favor.

Shepard did not ask if Aria was alright when the last of Cerberus' flunkies had been thrown against the force-field protecting Petrovsky's command hub. She knew grief when she saw it and from someone like Aria of course that grief would look like anger. In some ways it was a constructive kind of grief. In others, it assured Aria that no one would ever live to say they saw that something could hurt her.

"This is General Petrovsky," the general announced with the air of someone presenting a message over the all-call. "Cease and desist all actions. It's over."

"Oh no, oh _hell no_ ," Aria snarled, stalking towards the stairwell leading towards the command hub. "He doesn't just get to give up like that…"

Shepard followed cautiously. Nyreen had indicated that Petrovsky had a code of ethics and that they might not be in lock step with those of the Illusive Man—there was simply more to enjoy about being a Cerberus general than an Alliance general.

Nevertheless, he was a squiggly bastard if ever she saw one and she just knew he wasn't done ruining her day. Having to look at his _face_ was enough to continue ruining her day at this point.

"Wait," Shepard grabbed Aria's arm when Petrovsky dropped the shields. There was a brief scuffle during which time Petrovsky presented himself at the top of the narrow flight of stairs. He looked quite composed for a man who had Death snarling at him and out for his blood.

"Captain Shepard. I surrender myself into your custody," he announced simply.

Aria tore free of Shepard and stormed up the stairs, her biotics flaring. Shepard did notice—with some relief—that the asari's movements had also become wary, just in case Petrovsky had any more surprises. They were, after all, ascending into the heart of his lair.

"That is the lamest, most pathetic thing I have ever heard," Aria hissed before drawing back and slapping him, the motion augmented by her biotics.

Petrovsky reeled, looked as though he might recover his balance, but toppled over at the last moment.

"Shepard, I'm, unarmed." She knew it, as he'd left his sidearm in a conspicuous place. He looked up, a livid bruise forming where Aria struck him. "And I can give the Alliance intelligence on the Illusive Man." He regarded her expectantly, as if expecting her to pull on Aria's leash.

He obviously had her confused with someone stupid.

He might be scumbag enough to roll over on the Illusive Man to save himself, but knowing the Illusive Man and Cerberus' operational structure as she did, she doubted he knew anything she would personally call useful. His job was to take and hold Omega, to maintain order on the station so that Cerberus had access to the eezo mines and the Omega-4 Relay and whatever chunks of the Collector Base survived. That was all.

"For once I agree wholeheartedly with Aria. That _is_ the lamest, most pathetic thing I've ever heard."

Aria, still flaring, grabbed Petrovsky by the jacket and forced him back over the nearest console, her hands slithering up to his throat. Shepard couldn't see Aria's expression, but she didn't need to. Every inch of the asari was pulled taut, every muscle tensed. That said it all.

"You'll say _anything_ to save your own skin," Aria hissed, leaning heavily on Petrovsky's throat.

"I…I let you escape…Omega…" Petrovsky managed, ceasing to look expectantly at Shepard. "I deserve—"

Wow. He was sinking to all kinds of lows. Miranda really had been one in a million, and thank goodness for that.

"You deserve _shit_ ," came the low snarl full of the darkest, grimmest kind of anticipation. "Do you feel that Oleg?" Aria asked, putting one knee on the console and levering herself up onto it. She leaned in so close he could feel her breath against his skin, putting all her weight on his throat. Shepard almost didn't hear the words that followed. "That's _death_ , only inches away. Remember this feeling." Aria abruptly bashed his head against the console and pushed herself away from Petrovsky, who immediately slipped to the ground to lie in a feebly groaning, gasping heap. "You can have him. Because _she_ would have wanted that. And for the war against his master. Now get this _filth_ off my station."

Shepard inclined her head before walking over to Petrovsky and crouching in front of him.

If Shepard was honest, and she didn't mind being so, Aria had surprised her. She'd fully intended to start poking about in Petrovsky's computers rather than watch Aria throttle the man. She'd done what she came to do—help liberate Omega—and the old regime's fate didn't really matter. There was too much Cerberus in the galaxy. However, with his fate transferred to her hands, she had to start caring to some degree.

"Hear that shithead? A turian just saved your life," Shepard announced acerbically, regarding the sprawling creep as he began to get his breath back, massaging his throat and looking genuinely surprised to be alive.


	366. Laid Low

Oleg Petrovsky knew he was going to die and it was not how he had planned to go. Thin blue hands crawling with dark energy formed an iron band around his throat, the asari putting all her weight on the thin column that allowed him to breathe. His lungs burned as he looked up into those angry, hateful blue eyes and rage-etched features.

She was going to kill him, he realized. Or rather, he'd always known she _wanted_ to, especially after Kandros' death, but he'd always imagined Shepard would step in, would argue tolerance—his life in exchange for whatever was in his head.

But she just stood there, coolly assessing, not in the least bit motivated to step in.

He thought he'd understood Shepard but, as it turned out, the Illusive Man was right: Shepard might have predictable moments, but the only person who _understood_ Shepard was Shepard. And right now he understood that whatever he knew was shit to her if Aria wanted to kill him.

"I…I let you escape…Omega…I deserve—" Aria leaned more heavily on his windpipe, his words dying into a gurgle which, in itself, stopped a moment later. Distortions played across his darkening vision.

"You deserve _shit_ ," Aria dictated softly. "Do you feel that Oleg?" She'd levered herself closer: he could feel her breath—how he envied the ability to _breathe_!—against his lips. All he could see through the stars and distortions were Aria's eyes, framed by the dark blue tattoos that took the place of eyebrows. That was what he was going to go into the abyss seeing: those hateful angry blue eyes.

"That's _death_ , only inches away," Aria growled, the words becoming more of a vibration than an actual sound. "Remember this feeling."

Petrovsky yelped as Aria slammed his head vindictively against the console before letting his throat go and letting him slide bonelessly to the ground.

He'd never appreciated something as simple as air before. The intake of the precious commodity made him lightheaded…or maybe that was processes of mind and body shut down during the emergency coming back online.

Aria spoke quietly to Shepard, but he only caught the end of the conversation. "Now get this _filth_ off my station," Aria snapped.

Petrovsky opened streaming eyes to watch Shepard from the knees down approach. She crouched before him, her rifle loose in her arms, expression impassive. "Hear that shithead? A turian just saved your life."

Stranger things had happened.

Shepard got to her feet and took a step back, indicating with a jerk of her chin that he should get up.

Petrovsky did so, his throat and face swelling where no doubt horrible bruises were forming. He could breathe and he was in the custody of a reasonable woman. All was not lost and, all not being lost, he began to recover himself.

"Captain," Petrovsky managed hoarsely, rubbing his throat. "I'm…glad to see you've had a…a calming effect on Ms. T'Loak. I tried talking sense into her one time. I look forward to hearing how you pulled it off."

Shepard did not respond to his almost brightly conversational tone—and it _was_ brightly conversational given the situation. Rather, she continued to regard him with that dead-eyed glare that gave the impression she was looking through him and was thoroughly unimpressed with what she saw. "You really think you're in the position for small talk?"

Petrovsky shrugged, but began to feel a creep of unease. She really did have remarkable eyes and he could see why someone might find them unnerving. "From what I understand, high-ranking Alliance POWs lead fairly comfortable lives. Who knows? You and I may even before friends."

"Friends?" Shepard asked, her expression twisting into a smile. "Don't count on it.

The last thing Petrovsky saw was the butt end of her rifle flying towards his face.

-J-

Petrovsky woke up slowly, under the vague impression that he'd actually been drifting in and out of consciousness for some time. He felt stiff and uncomfortable, cramped in a way he'd never experienced before. He moved to stretch but found he could not. Within moments, he realized he was confined in a kind of small case or crate. The realization made the air feel too hot and too thick to breathe.

And memory of suffocation was too fresh to let him work around the discomfort or comfort himself with the knowledge that if he really truly lacked air he would have suffocated already. But fear was not so easily dispelled in the hot, cramped darkness.

"Shut up," Shepard's voice declared flatly, punctuated with a kick to the crate in which he was confined. "It's a long ride back to Citadel space and I'm too damn tired for your shit. _Behave_ and you might make the trip from the Citadel to Hackett like a person. Otherwise…" she kicked the crate again to emphasize she would be just as content to leave him in there as not.

Petrovsky swallowed hard.

' _She does things that are predictable, but make no mistake: no one really knows Shepard except Shepard_.'

He wouldn't have expected her to ship him like a slave. And no one would say anything against or could do anything about it—all she had to do was claim Spectre authority and a high-risk detainee. He might be going into Alliance custody but there was no doubt that it was not the kind of custody he'd envisioned. He hadn't got the 'protect and serve Alliance soldier' he'd expected. Instead, he got 'Council Spectre and you're disrupting galactic stability, asshole.'

Petrovsky closed his eyes, realizing just how well Shepard had understood _him_. He hated the sense of being so dependent on someone else's goodwill; he detested capitulating to her requirements in hopes of being rewarded for it—in this case by some smidgen of minimal liberty; and he loathed himself for both those things.

Because make no mistake, he would do almost anything to get out of the hot stuffiness of the shipping crate.


	367. Coming Home

Shepard's vindictive mood had mostly worn off by the time she delivered Petrovsky to Alliance custody. But stubborn nails needed a few more hits with a hammer, so he'd remained in his case during offloading—somewhat to the discomfort of the Alliance personnel.

' _Can you behave like a human being now?_ ' she'd asked the crate acidly.

' _Yes…_ ' came the poor attempt to retain dignity.

'…'

' _Yes…Captain._ '

At which point she'd opened the crate, turned on its side, and let him slither out of it like the snake he was. ' _Play nice, Oleg. If you don't, I'll happily take out Hackett's trash._ '

With that, she'd hailed the nearest CRT vehicle, reminding herself to write a note to Hackett warning him that Oleg might try to complain about his treatment at her hands. But Cerberus was a terrorist organization. Rules of warfare—specifically the treatment of prisoners—didn't cover terrorists, whatever military-esque rank they liked to assign themselves.

Besides, as a Spectre, she doubted Hackett would care to argue the point. If she'd still been solely Alliance, it might have caused problems. But she wasn't, and blind eyes were turned in little matters like this one.

She made another mental note to herself not to let her bad temper become habit. But Petrovsky had needed to be softened up, and she'd known how to do it. The interrogation teams would have more trouble with him, otherwise. It was the unsavory side of N-program training: how to break people one needed broken for strategic purposes.

She ached all over. She didn't remember being slammed back-first into anything, but the pain said it happened. That was combat: a million minor bumps and bruises and no clear recollection of how they got there.

She sighed, glad to be heading home. It had been awkward on Omega, seeing Aria reasserting her rule and grappling with grief. The asari didn't usually let people get close enough for grief to be a problem…but she was grieving. And Shepard hadn't known what to say that would help…or that Aria would even accept. So she'd said nothing, and allowed Aria to have her whisked off the station.

That was fine.

Shepard meant to slip onto the _Normandy_ without a fuss. However, no sooner had she cleared the helm airlock's d-con procedures—Miranda echoing in her head, ' _I always feel like I need a shower after visiting Omega, in addition to normal d-con procedures_ '—than the door opened to reveal EDI, Garrus, Vega, and Traynor. "Hey."

The crowd moved back to allow her access to her own ship.

"It is good to see you well," EDI declared.

"Thanks. Things got a little hairy, but they're all sorted out, now. Have I missed anything important?" She directed the question at Traynor, unsure what to think about the welcome wagon.

"The Council was antsy at your unexpected absence," Traynor answered.

"I'll have a mission report for them as soon as I can sit down to write one," Shepard answered, rubbing her eyes. She'd dozed on the shuttle ride, rather than slept. She pinned this on not having seen the situation properly settled before departing. But 'settling' Omega was a relative term, and she recognized that, with the ground operation over, her usefulness took a sharp downturn.

She wondered if that was what the end of this greater war would be like: the Reapers defeated (somehow), and then…no more need of Captain Shepard. The idea of being suddenly irrelevant chilled her.

"Are you okay?" Vega asked, frowning.

"Just a little tired. And I need a shower," Shepard answered, rolling her shoulders.

"I'll have Palmer send something up to you," Garrus volunteered.

"So…what's with the welcome wagon?" Shepard asked, as the group broke up, Garrus walking with her to the lift.

"Just a welcome wagon," Garrus shrugged. "We've been a little worried…and, incidentally, Alenko would like me to let him know when you get back. He's been a little anxious."

"I'd be anxious if a teammate wandered off, too. Depending on the teammate, I might even be a little anno—"

"I don't think he's thinking like a teammate, Shepard," Garrus interrupted, once the elevator doors closed. "In fact, I think you might want to consider whether or not you want him back on the team. Because I think he's going to ask. Just a hunch."

Shepard sighed. Oh, boy. She hadn't given it any consideration, but it didn't come as a surprise to hear that maybe she would need to. "Okay. The Council's been riding him about me?"

"I don't know about the Council, but not Burns. Burns, apparently, was all like 'she's a Spectre— _my_ Spectre—and she's doing her job. She'll copy you the mission report when it's finished, like she always does.'"

" _Really_?" Shepard chuckled, stepping onto the landing outside her quarters.

Garrus blocked the door to keep it from closing. "Yeah. He's been really proactive, in your corner. Alenko's been keeping me apprised. You know, so I don't 'forget' to let him know anything he might need or want to know." The turian grinned.

"What do you think?"

Garrus did not look Shepard in the eye when he answered. In fact, he regarded the door that tried to close every few seconds, only to be deflected by his hand. "I think Alenko is a good soldier and a capable biotic," he answered blandly. "But if he pulls another stunt like Horizon, that establishes a pattern. And if that pattern emerges, he's going to find himself dragged out behind the barracks, and those fancy biotics aren't going to help."

"I don't think that's going to be a problem," Shepard said uncomfortably.

"I hope not," came the earnest assurance. "But that's how it stands, Shepard." Garrus forced a smile and patted her shoulder. "I'm not worried about it, either. Go on, get mopped up. I'll bet Palmer'll time you so she can deliver a _hot_ meal when you're ready for it."

"Anything's better than the rations I've been eating."

"You'll like this."


	368. Settling In

It was best to know both the best and the worst scenario, and Shepard knew that when Garrus threatened Alenko with the turian equivalent of a blanket party, he did so for her sake, as a friend…and maybe a little because Alenko was a friend and to discover _that_ kind of pattern in his behavior would require a friend's correction.

Shepard didn't think hurting her—then apologizing profusely, then starting the cycle over—was a pattern that would develop…but part of her, a very small part she was almost ashamed of, was afraid of just that thing happening.

She pushed it aside. She would trust, be earnest in any second chances—as friends or comrades…she refused to consider anything beyond that just now—she allowed, until he proved he wasn't worth the second chance. Then, and only then, Garrus (and whatever team he rounded up) could have Alenko.

But she felt sure—most of her—that they were past ripping one another's hearts out and throwing them into high-speed blenders. Admittedly, the circumstances had been extreme.

Her own words to EDI came back to her with uncomfortable clarity: _'no one ever fell in love without being a little bit brave.'_

She was glad Garrus gave her time to consider whether or not Alenko was asset enough to justify his return to the crew. She tried not to let personal feelings interfere with her work, and Alenko had a way of shaking personal feelings out of their usual backseat placement.

Shepard grabbed fresh clothes, then shut herself into the tiny bathroom. Tiny or not, she appreciated the privacy of the little space, just as she appreciated the hot water and a good-sized cake of soap.

No sooner had she settled at her desk and prepared to begin writing her post-mission report for the Council, then a gentle knock at the door preceded EDI's "Shepard, Palmer is at the door."

"Come in!" Shepard called.

The door hissed open, admitting Palmer. "Good afternoon, Captain."

"Good afternoon, Palmer…what's _that_?" Shepard pointed, and only just managed not to make it sound as if Palmer had just presented her with a pile of mud.

"Real food!" Palmer beamed, setting the tray on the empty corner of Shepard's desk.

"It looks _amazing_ ," Shepard declared heartily, and truthfully. "It's just a little unexpected."

"Surprise!" Palmer chuckled. "Councilor Burns stopped in while you were gone. He was concerned with team morale. Garrus put him in the mess hall so he could take suggestions without messing up anyone's routine. And I thought, well, an army marches on its stomach and there's not a lot of room for imagination with regular rations. So I invited him to stay for lunch, since we were short a crewman with you gone."

"Good idea," Shepard answered, making a mental note to write a commendation for Palmer first, and her report to the Council second. It was such a comfort to come out of the field, away from field rations, to find a real meal available.

Palmer beamed. "He says as long as the Citadel is able to get supplies, he'll make sure I've got supplies to make one non-ration-based meal a day."

Shepard nodded, her approval. "It's good." Kind of a stew, with an even mix of meat, potatoes, and vegetables, all held together with a rich brown gravy—and none of it with the characteristic flavor of 'packaging media.' After several days of field rations, it was even better than it would normally be.

"We did breakfast as the 'real meal' yesterday," Palmer continued, "but I didn't get the impression it was popular. You know, people are still waking up, so taste buds just don't appreciate real eggs or whatever. I think supper is going to have to be the 'real meal,'" she concluded.

"Sounds good." It was hard to keep up a conversation and eat, though she found Palmer's cheerful chatter pleasant. "So Burns paid us a visit?"

"Well, he had Major Alenko with him, as a liaison officer," Palmer admitted. "I'm glad he's doing better."

"Me too. How did he react to EDI's platform?"

"He didn't."

" _I thought it would be in the interests of not causing the Spectre any particular discomfort at that time. Especially with a Council member onboard_ ," EDI interjected.

"I see. I'm sorry about that."

" _I am reasonably certain an opportunity to introduce myself properly will come about._ "

There was something so smug in EDI's tone that Shepard found herself wondering how best to control that meeting. It sounded to her as if EDI rather looked forward to surprising Alenko. Shepard shivered inwardly. "Just…don't let him crunch you like an empty beer can."

" _I would not worry about it, Captain, as my platform is merely satellite hardware. Nevertheless, as I enjoy having a mobile platform, I shall be careful._ "

"Thanks, EDI." She still had the feeling EDI was going to explore the humor of 'dropping non-literal bombshells,' and that Alenko was the test subject for this exploration.

"It's good to have you back, Captain," Palmer said, taking the tray of empty dishes before whisking out of the room.

Shepard, mouth still open to say 'thank you, it's good to be back' closed her mouth. "EDI? How did Burns' visit go?"

" _He has made a better impression than Councilor Udina did,_ " EDI answered. " _The crew seems to believe that he is in earnest, particularly after admitting that his history with you involved the saving of his life._ "

Shepard wanted to believe Burns was in earnest. He certainly gave that impression. However, her ingrained mistrust of politicians hissed at her to remain cautious. "Thank you, EDI."

" _Of course._ "

Shepard looked at the blank document she'd opened, and began to letter of commendation for improvements to morale on behalf of Sgt. Palmer. Then, a short letter of thanks to Councilor Burns. Then, she began the unpleasant task of reliving the events on Omega so she could write them down in colorless, clinical terms for the tender constitutions of the Council.


	369. All In

Alenko started when his omnitool buzzed and twinkled at him, indicating that a message had come in. He paused the treadmill, then once it was still, opened the interface on his omnitool and pulled up the message.

 _From: Vakarian, Garrus_

 _To: Alenko, Kaidan_

 _She's back. Arrived about twenty minutes ago. Looks in good condition. No visible damage. Dr. Chakwas just went up to give her a once-over. If you want to talk business with her, sooner would be better than later._

 _Good luck._

Alenko let out a breath of relief. 'No visible damage' was a good place to start. And Dr. Chakwas would absolutely want to make sure Shepard came back from wherever in reasonable condition—so even if there was non-visible damage, Dr. Chakwas wouldn't let it go untreated. The doctor knew how to wrangle marines…and Spectres who were also marines.

It also sounded as though Garrus knew—or suspected, because how could he _know_?—Alenko meant to try to get back on the _Normandy_. And 'good luck' rather than 'don't screw it up' was encouraging. It sounded supportive, anyway.

He climbed off the treadmill. It had been an anxious several days of busywork, and not even enough of that, really, to keep him occupied. He was glad Burns liked the idea of two Spectres on the same vessel—or, at least, Shepard and one other to help out.

He could honestly say he had good professional reason for wanting to reassign to the _Normandy_. Shepard needed all the help she could get, help she could trust, and while he'd been less than reliable on the trust front in the past, he was still an asset to a ground team, and Shepard knew that. Also, when it came to contact with the Council or the Alliance, he could field some of that, the minor stuff that was really just people wanting security blankets. Non-essential, but still-so-required stuff.

But the real reason he wanted to go was personal. Deeply, painfully personal. There were too many people _lost_ out in that too-large galaxy. His parents. Aunts and uncles. Cousins. A few friends. It would be comforting to know where Shepard, Garrus and Liara were, to know concretely that they were alright. And to be able to make sure they stayed that way, by being there with either a barrage or a barrier handy.

And there was the hope that maybe, _maybe_ , he could fix the rest of what was broken between him and Shepard. With the galaxy in the state it was in, he couldn't bear the thought of not trying. Shepard hadn't told him, at any point, that getting back together absolutely wasn't in the cards. He could go slow. They could start at being fellow servicemen, if she didn't think they were ready to be good friends just yet, and he'd be content. As long as he could watch her back, he could be patient. As long as there was hope for them, he could be oh so very patient.

Because he did not—could not, must not—forget that _he_ was the one who hurt _her_. Therefore, things needed to move at her pace. She needed time to learn to trust him again. But everything about their interactions before Cerberus' attempted coup suggested she was open to second chances.

It was a challenge, and a daunting one, but he felt up for it. And with the galaxy sliding down the tubes, he didn't intend to waste any chances, any opportunities, to chase the things that mattered. And beyond question, Shepard mattered. Had always mattered.

He wasn't sure what the rules for fraternization between Spectres were, but if they needed to throw the book at someone, he'd quit. He had some questions as to his fitness to really be a Spectre, considering who pushed his induction through in the first place.

Once showered and dressed, he opened a channel to Burns' office. He was in a meeting, but would call back as soon as the meeting concluded. Burns tended to be pretty good about 'I'll call you back.'

That was fine too, Alenko thought as he took a bottle of water out of the fridge and cracked it open. It would give him a few moments to settle down, wrestle with his own nerves. Because his nerves were beginning to flare, and if he didn't get them under control, _he_ would start to flare, too.

There was a distinct possibility that Shepard would refuse to have him on her station simply because they'd been personally entangled at one point. She was good at separating work and personal life. Him, though? There had been some question about that. She might even think it would be safer for both of them to have some distance.

He'd argue, he decided flatly. He'd argue until he was blue in the face, beat his head against that brick wall until the wall gave way. One way or another, he was getting reassigned to that ship. Garrus seemed to think he had a decent chance of getting back there.

His omnitool chimed, indicating Burns was on the other end. "Burns." He'd finally gotten into the habit of addressing Burns by his surname only when it was just the two of them.

" _Alenko,_ " Burns smiled. " _What can I do for you?_ "

"It's the other way around. Shepard pulled in about half an hour ago. I'm getting ready to see if she'll agree to having a backup Spectre on her station."

" _Excellent. She's well?_ "

"Garrus says she looks fine, and he'd know," Alenko answered with more certainty than he felt.

" _Good. Very good. Let me know how the meeting goes, and I'll handle the paperwork over here. I'll sign it as soon as I know if it's needed._ "

"Thank you, sir."

" _Not at all. I'll hope for a good outcome. Give her my best, either way._ "

"I'll let you know," Alenko signed off. Yes, they were both hoping for a good outcome, though for quite different reasons.


	370. Joke

EDI shut down the communications link to the airlock. (Subjective assessment: the time had come.) "We should allow him to see the Captain."

"What? No way." Joker shook his head sharply.

EDI knew—as Joker did not—about the photograph of Alenko that had, throughout the mission to stop the Collectors, stayed on Shepard's desk. The same photo which had given Shepard some comfort prior to passing through the Omega-4 relay.

"That is very subjective criteria, Jeff."

"Yes, it is. Look," Joker made a negating motion with one hand, "I'm not mad at him for trying to kill me…"

Try to kill Jeff? She pulled up Alenko's personnel file and ran through it. It did not seem in line with Major Alenko's psych profile for him to try to kill a crewman for anything short of outright treason.

"But the guy—" Joker cut himself off. From the way he pursed his lips, EDI extrapolated the reason had something to do with Shepard.

"Jeff. _I_ will answer the door, and conduct him to and from the Captain's office. If she kills him, I am more than capable of removing the body."

Joker chuckled at this, a smile which grew (Joker: wicked). "Don't let him shoot you. It's been one of those weeks."

"I will not." EDI got to her feet, feeling very capable of dealing with Major Alenko and any reaction to her presence he might have. She also prepared her onboard cameras, in case he made amusing facial expressions.

"All right, Alenko, permission granted." Joker rotated his chair to watch as EDI placed herself by the airlock.

EDI blinked several times when the airlock hissed open, capturing Alenko's expression with each shutter-motion of her eyelids. His expression really was ridiculous—running from shock, to confusion, to horror, to more confusion—and would certainly provide entertainment for several people. "Hello, Major Alenko."

The ridiculous expressions continued for a moment. Even Shepard would get some small amusement out of it, and if anyone could use a laugh it was Shepard. It had taken him a moment to get over the surprise of a synthetic door-woman, then he recognized her face.

"The hell…?" The shock and horror as memories of the synthetic that had picked him up and thrown him around like a rag doll seemed to settle as practicality took over. She was on 'Shepard's ship', and had her hands folded behind her back.

"Dr. Core is…dead." It was easier to understand than 'nonfunctional.' Shepard and her squad—past and present—understood 'dead' as being more final than 'nonfunctional.'

"Right…good…" Another photograph. Alenko did not know it but, his reaction, from start to finish, was being saved for future reference.

Via her shipboard comm system, EDI hailed Shepard in her office. "Shepard, you have a crewman requesting a moment of your time. May I send them up?" It was true in a loose sense. When Shepard talked about her former crew, one always had the sense that she still considered them active-but-absent crewmen.

" _Absolutely. I was just filling out paperwork—you know how big into that the Council is…even in time of war."_ Through her monitoring array, EDI could see Shepard sigh, pushing the datapad before her to one side. " _Do you know what this is about?_ "

"I did not inquire." Without missing a beat she disconnected her conversation with Shepard, her platform continuing, "I am the _Normandy_ 's Enhanced Defense Intelligence. The crew likes to refer to me as EDI." The flash of name-recognition that crossed Alenko's face also went into her pictorial databanks. If she could assign values to music, perhaps she could make a montage of this with comic background music? Perhaps she could consult someone, Allers for instance. It was her understanding that sound influenced an organic's perception of things, hence the need for soundtracks for films. "This way."

Out of the corner of her platform's eye she caught Joker flash Alenko a smug look before the pilot turned his chair to face the console. Clearly Joker was enjoying the effect EDI was having on Alenko—who was still looking warily at her.

' _Just…don't be surprised if some of the crew are a little wary of your 'new body.' It was shooting at them not long ago._ ' Here was a kind of joke that did not need to be identified as a joke. Through her helm camera, she could see that Joker was smiling wickedly, clearly enjoying the beefy marine's discomfiture.

"Hey, Joker," Alenko said hesitantly, hanging back momentarily.

Joker waved a hand in recognition of the greeting, but said nothing. She had the impression that he was not snubbing Alenko, exactly, but was more worried about which direction the pending conversation would go: after all, Joker heard every word spoken on Horizon, and had not seemed inclined to excuse Alenko for his…(Joker-slang: 'dumb-assery.')

"Captain Shepard has a free moment, Spectre Alenko." EDI announced before leading Alenko through the CIC. At her prompting, he followed. It was probably a wise thing to seed the listening crew with the notion that this was 'Spectre business' and therefore classified far, far above their pay grades.

She led him to the elevator, observed the way Alenko tried to keep his distance from her without being obvious about it. She (shorthand: appreciated) the attempted discretion. The door hissed open and she let him step out first; clearly he was caught between whether he wanted to be able to see her platform or not.

"I will wait here, and take you back to the airlock when she is finished with you."

She took several more image captures as he tried to work out what, exactly, she meant by that. She suspected she had stimulated the sensation known as 'butterflies'…assuming he hadn't already been suffering from them.

As soon as Alenko gained admittance to Shepard's office, EDI activated her comm unit at the helm. "Jeff, I have something I think you will want to see." With that, she streamed the images to Joker's console.


	371. Bring It

Concerns about AI and confusion over the mech from Mars were hard to shove into a corner of his mind, but Alenko managed to do it. "Mission went okay?" Alenko asked as Shepard pointed him to a chair.

If she was surprised to see him, it didn't show. "We had casualties, but mission successful."

"This week's been such a damn mess," he finally announced, rubbing his eyes.

"That it has," Shepard answered, nodding fervantly. "What's on your mind?"

Alenko regarded Shepard's bland attention. "Remember that tlak you didn't want ot have in the cab?"

"Right."

Since she didn't say 'no' again, he proceeded carefully. It was an elephant in the room, and ow matter how much either of them didn't really want to discuss it…it would remain an elephant in the room, taking up space and distracting everyone who noticed it. "I guess I'm still trying to wrap my head around what happened."

Shepard tensed, a slow pulling of muscles that improved her posture dramatically. "You're angry." The words came out guarded, cautious.

"No, I'm not angry," and he took pains to make sure his tone matched the words. "It's just not every day you have an armed standoff with someone you love."

Shepard actually dropped her gaze. Lucky her, he thought blandly, to have had a mission to work on instead of mulling that over.

"It's had me, I don't know," he waved vaguely.

"I get it. Grain of salt taken, so talk to me." She got to her feet in attentive silence.

He studied her face, the sharpening angles that spoke of stress and self-neglect, the pull of her mouth when she wasn't actively using it, weariness and sadness weighing down the corners, the tilt of her chin that seemed like defiance of a galaxy arrayed against her. All these things became more and more obvious every time he saw her.

"I just feel like, if I hadn't backed down first you would have taken me out." Why was he asking her about this? It was one of those questions in the same category as 'how many people have you killed?' It wasn't appropriate to ask. Ever.

She dropped her gaze. "I trusted you. I knew you'd come around. And _if_ you hadn't," she continued before he could open his mouth, "we were at _pistol_ range."

He had to smile. He'd asked for the ugly answer, she'd given him a positive cant to it.

Pistol range indeed: she could have easily dropped him at pistol range. He might have been hurt, but that wasn't the same as killing him. It was oddly comforting.

"Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Can we not talk about this anymore?" Her words came out thickly.

He looked up, not realizing his gaze had fallen. His thoughts about whether he'd truly acted with integrity, whether he could have done what she'd done if their situations reversed were suddenly gone. Hindsight _was_ twenty-twenty. He'd been doing his job, to the best of his ability given the information he had. And when it came to the testing, he'd made the right choice. And all that was comforting.

"Yeah…yeah," he answered, looking at her as if he'd never quite seen her before, "there's nothing else about it talk about." If she felt half as bad as he had, during those few tense moments…he wanted to hug her, just hold her in his arms until they both started to feel alright. "There is one other thing, though."

"Okay." She sounded less guarded this time, which was good. She also sat down again, which struck him as a good thing.

"I've been offered a liaison position between Hackett and Burns. But I'd turn it down in a second if there was a chance to join you on the Normandy again."

Shepard took a deep breath, then let it out slowly as if debating how good an idea that might be. He'd never seen her so obviously conflicted.

He let her think, surprised that she let the internal arguments show so clearly. It could only mean she was tired, that she no longer had the energy to hide things when it wasn't absolutely necessary. She'd probably shrunk her definition of 'absolutely necessary,' too.

"You're a capable soldier, and I need people I can trust," Shepard said slowly. "But I need to know that you are fully committed to what we have to do. To whatever we have to do."

The words chilled his blood. He'd never heard her so fatalistic; one would think she was asking him if he could shoot her, if the situation warranted. Maybe that's what she was thinking. "Is that a no?"

Shepard met his gaze with those vivid eyes of her, the feature about her most people remembered. "No, that means 'it's entirely up to you.'"

"Okay…" He didn't like that tone…

"Wrex once asked who would win in a fight. Let's find out."

"What?" He wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly…but at the same time it seemed so classically _Shepard._

"One match, five second pin, down in the cargo bay. Now. Garrus can officiate. Put me down, you stay. Get put down, Burns keeps a good operative." She clearly felt it was a fair test.

Alenko remembered that question as well as his answer _I can't think of any scenario that would require the Commander and I to fight._

He remembered Wrex's answer just as clearly: _Heh. That's why she'd win: she's_ _already_ _thought about it._

He regarded Shepard, patient and composed as he considered the offer. He couldn't bear the thought of being out of the loop, of finding them poised to shoot one another. He couldn't bear another span of months, waiting, worrying, and wondering if she was alright while the whole galaxy seemed to be doing its damnedest to kill her.

He didn't want to hurt her, not even a little bit. Never again.

There was only one answer he could conscionably give, so he gave it, voice terse with resolve. "Bring it."


	372. Trial

From her spot sitting in the Kodiak's doorway, Liara frowned at the gallery in engineering that looked out on the cargo bay. It was full of people curiously watching as Shepard and Alenko laid down the training mats under the watchful eyes of Dr. Chakwas, Cortez, and the rest of the ground crew. Shepard clearing the cargo bay was unusual, and word had spread like wildfire: the Spectres had something going on.

 _She_ knew what was going on: Alenko wanted to come with them. Shepard wasn't sure it was wise—for a variety of reasons, no doubt. So apparently Shepard's best plan for settling the matter was a rather unsophisticated one.

"So _why_ am I officiating again?" Liara asked, crossing her legs and regarding the two Spectres. She thought she knew: she hadn't been with Shepard for the Collector hunt, either. She could be perceived as 'more objective' since she too had had her reasons for not going with Shepard.

"Because Alenko doesn't trust me to be impartial," Garrus answered indulgently. "I take exception to that, by the way."

Alenko grinned as he continued adjusting the mats. "No offense meant, Garrus. But I 'd hate to ruin your track record."

Of siding _with_ Shepard, Liara mentally finished the sentence.

"Doesn't trust _me_ , either," Vega offered, leaning against the Kodiak.

"That's because you two never hit dirt together," Liara noted. "It's one of _those_ things."

"I don't want to see anything worse than a few bruises," Dr. Chakwas noted grimly, pointing at each Spectre in turn.

Shepard frowned at her right arm. There was a nasty bruise on the outer side of her elbow, as if she'd been slammed into something and her crooked arm had been between her and the obstacle. She hadn't said what she'd been doing, but whatever it was looked like it had exhausted her.

That told Liara that Shepard was simply too tired to simply argue with Alenko. The man really should have waited until Shepard had had time to do more than shower and grab a quick meal.

Shepard stretched, wincing several times as she did so, hinting at more bruises that didn't show.

Alenko eyed the stiffness of movement apprehensively, and Liara had to wonder if Shepard wasn't purposely exposing the fact that she was hurt. Alenko was less likely to perform to the standard required to obtain admission to the crew if he thought he might actually hurt her.

"You sure you want to do this now?" Alenko asked, frowning.

Shepard stepped onto the mats and took her stance. "Are you quitting?"

Alenko did not dignify the question with a response, but stepped onto the mats himself.

Shepard was far from invincible in hand-to-hand combat. It was simply experience in dissecting opponent in short order so she could take them apart efficiently that made it look like she was so much stronger than she was. The equal footing showed with Garrus, who knew his plates could scuff unwary knuckles—a fact of which Shepard was aware and cautious.

Shepard and Alenko remained where they were, sizing one another up. Alenko had a decided size advantage and was a biotic—though he'd never stoop to something like that in a practice match. Shepard was nimble and fierce, hitting hard and fast—she also knew Alenko's antipathy towards a test like this, which was to her advantage.

So after a fashion they were evenly matched.

"First one with a five second pin. Liara's counting," Shepard announced.

Alenko nodded, his usually gentle brown eyes fixed on Shepard with a hardened determination that did him credit.

Alenko made the first move, little more than a step forward, before Shepard sprang into action. Alenko's movement had simply been bait to get Shepard to make the first real move—but the blow he deflected connected solidly; anyone close enough could see the force move from Shepard's open palm to Alenko's deflecting arm.

Shepard ducked Alenko's attempt to catch hold of her, then another before ducking low and bringing her open-palmed hand up to catch him under the chin.

With a speed that surprised Liara, Alenko's biotic corona flared as he raised his left hand.

Shepard suddenly crumpled to the ground, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, landing in a heap.

Alenko was on her in a second, releasing her from the stasis field once he had a knee against her backbone and her arms effectively pinned. He wasn't careful of her comfort, either if the look on Shepard's face was any indication.

"One," Liara began.

"Oh, that's _not_ fair!" Vega yelped, pushing off the shuttle door.

Garrus simply rumbled.

Shepard hadn't stipulated any kind of restriction; thus, she could hardly complain if Alenko was willing to play directly to get what he wanted.

"Two." Liara vaguely wondered if it might even be flattering to Shepard, knowing that being a part of the crew was enough to get him to put aside his usual conventions when dealing with allies.

Shepard squirmed and fussed, but there was no moving the solidly-positioned Alenko.

"Three."

The peanut gallery looked fairly disgruntled at the break in the perceived rules of sparring.

"Four."

Dr. Chakwas sighed, shaking her head. "At least it was quick."

"Five. I'm sorry, Shepard, but Alenko won according to your conditions."

"Fine. Welcome aboard," Shepard grunted, going limp. Her aura also went momentarily limp before reasserting itself as resigned blue with vividly magenta flutters.

"Thanks, Shepard," Alenko responded, his own aura shifting from orange apprehension to its usual dependable brown shot with green relief. Maybe he hadn't been so certain Shepard would accept her lack of stipulations as making this an _ipso facto_ 'anything goes' kind of fight.

"You wanna get your knee out of my bruises, now?" Shepard asked plaintively.

"Gladly." Alenko complied, then came around and helped Shepard gently to her feet once she was sitting up.

Magenta flutters again, this time from both of them. The flutters gave Liara hope for Shepard's and Alenko's shared future.


	373. Kinky

"So, Shepard," Garrus asked slowly, watching her out of the corner of his eye, "are we okay with Alenko being back?"

"He's a good soldier, did what was necessary, and I honor my word. It's about all I have left, sometimes." Shepard ran her hand through her hair, knowing that this face-value answer was not what Garrus was getting at.

"Of course he is, and I've never seen you do otherwise. Though…turian ships are different from human ships," Garrus responded mildly. "So, _are_ we okay with Alenko being back?"

"I expect a certain amount of professionalism between crewmen at all times. That's what it takes to make this work." She knew why Garrus was pushing the issue, and was not sure how long she could keep dodging it.

"Keep dodging, Shepard. A moving target may be hard to hit, but you've seen me take down moving targets." She'd also seen him _impersonate_ a moving target, but clearly she wasn't in the mindset to point this out. He must be closer to home than he thought—which was pretty damn close.

"What do you want me to say, Garrus?" Shepard demanded wearily. "Tell you to leave him alone? Ask you to kick his ass? Hope you find a compromise? What _you_ do with Alenko is your business."

As long as she wasn't mopping it up off the floor, Garrus finished silently. Shepard ran a steady ship; she didn't like cleaning up other people's messes off the cargo bay floor.

"We're big boys, so I don't think you need to play referee, and if I _do_ kick his ass he won't be any good in a fight. Which means you'll kick mine for fouling your mission readiness meter. By the way, Shepard…you didn't just _let_ him walk all over…wow. Are those your teeth grinding?"

"Do you want to see the beautiful bruise he added to the ones already my back? I don't just 'let people win' when we're playing high stakes," Shepard answered primly. "Why the sudden interest? You haven't worried about Liara or Adams, or Eek and Meek down in engineering."

"Come on, Shepard, I was on Horizon. You know I was in the turian military, and I told you about how we look at things. I'm not worried about Alenko in a fight, I'm worried about you. You harassed me after we let Sidonis go, I'm harassing you now because I think it's _important_ that we talk about this," he finished virtuously. He had her on the ropes there, and he knew it. There was no way Shepard was going to play hypocrite at this point. She had too much pride.

His smugness helped him not think about Sidonis.

She stopped pretenses with another sigh, putting her head in her hands. "So what do you want me to say? That I still love him? That we're through? That I really don't know one way or another?"

Garrus sat down beside Shepard, cast an arm around her shoulders. "Shepard, you're the best friend I've got. Best friend I ever had. I've got no intention of discussing any of this with Alenko—it's none of his damn business—I just want to make sure I never have to see the look you were wearing when we left Horizon ever again."

Shepard sighed, leaned against the turian, but she gave an exhale that had something of wry amusement in it. "You're damn nosy, Vakarian." And to emphasize the point, she jostled him with her elbow.

"And you're damn pushy, Shepard—always in other people's business." He would have jostled her back, but wasn't in a position to do so.

"I do love him…and I know he's still got a soft spot for me." It was a confidence the likes of which very few people would have received. "But there's a lot we've got to work past and…that's going to take time. And effort."

Her tone indicated this was partly a deficiency on her part: she had little experience with relationships, and probably didn't know how to go about fixing this one. It was a slippery slide into worry that she didn't need. That meant he needed to find something silly or outrageous.

"Well, here's something it would take a fella to decode for you: he's in this war to win it. But he could do just as much working for Hackett. Or doing something undoubtedly black-filed for the Council. He's _here_ for you. Otherwise it'd be like Wrex said all those years ago: there's no way Alenko could have put you on the floor."

"That's true. I was a little surprised. Everybody changed while I wasn't looking…"

"Nah—we just got concentrated. Potent." Garrus took his arm from around her shoulders, then got to his feet. He didn't want to be in arm's reach when he dropped his next comment. "Besides, I think he had a better reason than just proving a point to you."

"Is this you as a fella decoding another fella for this poor, uninformed female?" Shepard asked, voice dripping with sarcasm—a clear indicator that Garrus should desist while he was ahead.

It wasn't enough of a deterrent; Garrus could see why Wrex liked to harass Shepard. The difference was that _he_ did it for her benefit, not just to watch her squirm.

Though that was outrageously funny in itself.

"Absolutely. There's a well-documented correlation," Shepard groaned, putting her head in her hands, "between sex and violence in humans. _I_ think it's easier to get someone to forgive you, get you out of the varren-house, if that other person is all hot and bothered. You looked a little pink, Shepard. Out of breath."

"I was _fighting_ , you…birdbrain. From a serious mass _disadvantage_." She couldn't quite bring herself to call him anything worse. "Besides, I don't believe you." The problem was that he had a point…not necessarily an accurate one, but he did have one.

"Hey, it's _your_ physiology. Don't blame _me_ that your species is wired to be kinky."


	374. Language

"Watch it," Shepard warned as Garrus nodded. He punched the door open and Shepard entered, rifle raised to find Zaeed standing behind the volus with Jessie in his arms. "Hey Zaeed. How's it going?" The words were light even if they were pointing weapons at one another. She sidestepped in, Garrus and Vega following.

"Not too bad for having been dumped on the galaxy's biggest landfill," Zaeed answered back. "See you're still ugly as ever. The both of you," he appended, glancing at Garrus.

"Coming from you, I'll take it as a compliment," Shepard retorted. "So. I see dead bodies, a volus ambassador—"

"Piece of shit, more like," Zaeed grunted.

"—and a rifle pointed in my direction. "

"You've got _three_ in mine."

"Come on, it's a compliment. I know one won't do the job. It's been tried."

"Garbage dump, Shepard."

"I wouldn't have left you anywhere I didn't think you could get away from," Shepard protested. If they weren't shooting at each other by this point, they probably wouldn't end up doing so.

"You're all heart."

"I really am. So, are we going to have problems?"

"I dunno. _Are_ we?"

There was a tense moment before Shepard and Zaeed both lowered their weapons marginally, the tension in the air relaxing marginally. "Vakarian," Zaeed nodded.

"Massani."

"Still taking her crazy orders?"

"Still crooning to your rifle when you think no one's listening?"

"Pot meet kettle. Who's the brat?"

Vega answered with a finger.

"James Vega," Shepard clarified.

"Huh. He's a bit too new and shiny for your line of work, isn't he?" Zaeed mused.

"So, now that we all know one another—" Shepard began.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. How d'you do and shake hands. Except you'll forgive me that last one. Not in a hand-shaking mood."

"Yeah. I imagine I'm not on Jessie's Christmas card list."

"You're really not."

By now, the tension had almost completely dissolved.

"What I get for signing up last minute—undisciplined bastards," Zaeed sneered at the corpses.

"I was wondering about that. I'll bet Cerberus welched on your deal. Didn't think you'd sign on with them again," Shepard mused.

"You must think I'm damn stupid. Moved the credits out of sight as soon as the check cleared. _You_ were the problem."

"Like I said: I'd have picked somewhere nicer if I thought you'd never get offworld. Now look at us, having a nice grown-up discussion."

"Can it."

"Better than piss off."

"You can do that, too."

Shepard chuckled, then turned to the volus. "So, now it's your turn. I've got a couple of turian diplomatic VIPs with guns, shovels and grudges, and there are mercs snatching your ass. Let's start with that colony."

"You do paint a picture," Zaeed noted.

"Information on a turian-held planet's defense system," the volus answered softly. "They'll strike soon."

"I'm waiting for you to finish that sentence," Shepard prompted gently but firmly as she frowned at the volus.

He immediately began sucking air with increasing frequency. "But-but if I tell you which planet…they'll know I betrayed them."

"Betrayed _them_?" Zaeed sneered, crossing his arms, "You already betrayed your own people. I'm not Shepard. I get chatty when I'm drunk and I'm having a really. Bad. Day."

Shepard resisted the urge to smile.

"Wait, wait," the volus held up his hands. "I can offer a bargain. The volus bombing fleet—in tactical terms it's far more valuable than a single colony!"

"Little shit," Zaeed growled as Shepard took a knee in front of the volus. "You know she was a colony kid, right? Had it burned out from under her? You _still_ want to put that on the table? Hell, why are we even negotiating?"

They weren't—well, she and he weren't—and she wasn't going to let the volus weasel out, either. "Or you could give us both."

The volus sucked air in distress. " _You_ can warn the turians there'll be an attack. That should be general enough—"

"Idiot," Zaeed grunted.

He did play a decent 'good cop, bad cop.' "Look. You tried to do the right thing before and failed because you trusted the wrong people. You have a chance to make up for it—that doesn't happen often. Give us volus support and we'll make Cerberus pay for using you…if we know where they're going to be."

The volus shifted from foot to foot. "I can't…"

"You _can_."

Zaeed snorted. "Waste of time. You can't rely on a volus' better nature, Shepard. They get it removed when they go into accounting."

The volus turned to glare at Zaeed—or, rather, Shepard assumed he was glaring at the merc. She could imagine Zaeed's expression, too.

"Aephus. The colony's name is Aephus. Cerberus wants their shipyards," the volus whispered, as if the words were squeezed out of him in a single moment of wishing to prove the merc wrong more than anything else.

"And the bombing fleet?" Shepard asked.

"Yes," the volus bobbed as if nodding agreement, "it's yours, Captain." He looked around, almost helplessly at the corpses. "I'll…speak with C-Sec about this…incident. You-you have my thanks."

Shepard got to her feet. "Walk with me?" she asked.

"Are you shitting me?" Zaeed bristled. "Look, Shepard, we're not friends. You marooned me and I'm still scratching my head as to why we're still talking. You go your way, I'll go mine, and if by some strange coincidence we _happen_ to run into each other again, the ryncol better be on you." He jabbed a finger in her direction to emphasize his point before stomping off. "Stay away from the refugee docks, Shepard."

Shepard snorted, trying not to smile as Zaeed strode out. At least she knew where to bring the apology ryncol.

"You know," Garrus mused, "I think he likes you. That whole bit sounded like merc-speak for 'you marooned me, but I respect you.'"

"Sounded like a load of garbage to me," Vega declared sardonically.

"Ironic, considering how he and Shepard parted company last time. Highly apropos."

-J-

Author's note: I know this arc happens abruptly… and with very little (if any) follow-through… but there was just no good way to handle it without bogging the story down.

…and Zaeed refused to do more than this one chapter… but wouldn't let me write him out entirely. -_-;


	375. Chat

Part of Alenko felt he ought to have given Shepard more time to get used to him being on board. He managed to give her until after dinner. Officially 'off duty' time.

Besides—and she seemed to agree, however tacitly—he _had_ been out of the crew loop for quite some time, and what better time for catching up than the present? At least he hadn't started out by declaring that the captain's suite was stellar for a ship this size, or something equally obvious.

More than that, her idea of catching up involved the phrase 'well, I've hung out in your living room.' So far, so good. They weren't having this talk in her office.

Shepard sat on one bank of couches in her living quarters. Alenko sat on the other bank. He couldn't help but notice that her bear, Paddington sat squarely entrenched between the two pillows on the bed.

"So. EDI," he declared.

"…she sprang that platform on you, didn't she?" Shepard asked with a bemused kind of wince.

"Yeah. Scared the shit out of me."

"That's the imp in her. She's making a special study of humor."

"Humor," Alenko repeated blankly. Why did a machine need humor? Did humor even compute?

"Yes," Shepard nodded. Then she sighed. "I know that look. Yes, EDI is an AI. Fully sentient and a member of this crew."

"…someone put an AI on a ship? Why?"

"Not _on_ the ship. _In_ the ship—the platform you met is just…like a hand puppet. Something to increase her ability to interact with the wider world. Technically, she _is_ the _Normandy_ , now. She handles cyberdefense and cyberwarfare. EDI is an acronym—"

"For enhanced defense intelligence," Alenko interrupted. "She mentioned it." His stomach churned. Not just _on_ the ship, but _in_ it?

"Relax, Alenko. She's a lot less murderous than the asshole who authorized her construction," Shepard chided gently. "To be honest, I wasn't so thrilled with the idea at first. But EDI's proven herself."

There wasn't much to say to that.

"Can you handle a synthetic crewman?" Shepard asked, when the silence stretched.

"Sure." He would learn to do so. And, if EDI hadn't killed the crew or sold them out to the Reapers or the geth, then maybe, statistically, she wasn't going to?

"You'll get used to her."

"You always did attract a colorful array of crewmen." There, that was nice and neutral.

Still…an AI?

More than that, it seemed like everyone was covering for her, in one way or another. No AI here, just the ship's integrated VI. Come to think of it, the number of people not talking about the AI onboard the _Normandy_ was a lengthy list, including several non-crewmen.

Alenko was sure he would have to learn to sleep soundly, his experience with AI being what it was.

"You should talk to her, sometime. EDI is very understanding," Shepard suggested.

"Is she?"

"I believe my first reaction was to ask for a laser cutter if my XO wouldn't—or couldn't—shut EDI down. When told that the bulk of my experience with AI was with the geth—"

Alenko grimaced. He remembered them all too well.

"—she said my reaction as understandable, since it was based on experience, not simply xenophobia. You should probably know…the geth we were fighting while chasing Saren? Not the majority."

Alenko felt his jaw drop. "Say what?"

"Apparently the geth had a…schism? The majority of the geth are isolationist and content to be left alone. The minority, called Heretics, want the Reapers back," Shepard explained. "I…" she paused, then exhaled slowly, running a hand through her hair. "They sent a unit to…to find me…after the Normandy went down."

"Why?" Alenko asked.

"The avowed reason was the usual: because I fight Reapers, it's what I do," Shepard answered wearily. "But sometimes…I wonder if maybe…" she shook her head. "I don't know. I always kind of felt like there was more to it, but that maybe Legion didn't just have the words to express what he and the Consensus were looking for."

"Why Legion?" Alenko's mind felt like it was bogging down. EDI was one thing, but a _geth_? And their society—if he could call it that—had had a schism? It boggled the mind.

"Because while we were dealing with one platform, there were many runtimes. I'm sure he's gone back to the Consensus, so Legion technically doesn't exist anymore. It's too bad. As well as I knew him, I liked him."

Alenko leaned back in the couch. "Wow. I…missed a lot, huh?"

"Yeah."

"And have the geth tried getting in contact with you again?"

Shepard shifted in her place, looking discontented. "Not as yet. I keep hoping to hear something. The majority don't want the Reapers, and we destroyed most of the Heretics. Long story."

"I may ask sometime," Alenko said, trying to sound brightly interested rather than betray how deeply unsettled he felt. His understanding of the galaxy had taken several hits already.

Shepard gave a halfhearted shrug. "Sure. Might take a few hours."

"I'll look forward to time well spent."

Silence fell again.

"Are you all moved in?" Shepard finally asked.

"Yeah. Got all my stuff down in the crew bunks. Checked in with Dr. Chakwas. Good to see her again." He had to give it to the ship's designer: the crew bunks were far better than the sleeper pods on the SR-1.

"Good. No problems with the crew?"

A sense of caution welled up in Alenko's mind. "No, should there be?"

Shepard shrugged. "I don't expect any."

But the potential was there, which meant a handful of people who knew—well, beyond Garrus and probably Liara—about Horizon.

There was only one thing to do. "If the subject's not too sore…how did you meet Thane?"

A gentle, sad smile played around the corners of Shepard's mouth. "I needed people, and he was on the shortlist I was given."

Alenko leaned forward, posture attentive, prompting Shepard to continue.


	376. Mentor

James Vega's nerves buzzed uncomfortably. He felt twitchy in a way he had not since Shepard left. Her being gone gave him something to focus on—backing up Vakarian. Not that Vakarian really needed the help; it was a known and accepted fact that when Shepard wasn't around, he was in charge.

Part of Vega was glad Shepard hadn't tried leaving _him_ in charge.

He looked at the datapad in his hand containing the letter from Commandant Escobar. Immediately after receiving the letter he'd been excited. After the excitement wore off, he found himself incredulous. Then doubtful—not of the invitation, but of himself. So he put the message away for a while and let it remain out of sight.

Him? An N-operative? He was a good soldier, sure, but not because he exerted any particular effort. Looking at Shepard…she put effort into everything. Hell, she probably put more effort into sleeping than he put into a normal day…though he winced as he thought it. Yeah, if anyone had stuff keeping her up at night, it would be Shepard.

He glanced at the datapad again. In her absence, it and its contents had begun to grow on his mind, nibble at his thoughts. He wasn't sure he was ready to climb back onto the leadership horse after having been thrown once before. But he did feel ready to talk about it.

His omnitool twinkled with a message from Shepard.

 _Come on up. I'm free._

He glanced at his chrono. He meant to talk to her after dinner, but Alenko beat him to it, so he'd pinged her with a 'hey, can we talk?' message. There was no hurry, after all…and Alenko did have some serious catching-up to do.

It wasn't that Vega didn't like Alenko. He simply remained…unimpressed.

Besides, if you listened to Gabby, Alenko had committed what was, to her, the capital offense of rejecting Shepard when Shepard requested help. His reasons didn't matter to her. Adams had stepped in, pointing out that Dr. Chakwas asked _him_ for help, and he hadn't joined up, at which point Gabby called the situations apples and oranges. Vega rather thought it was the _way_ Alenko said no, rather than the fact that he hadn't joined up when the opportunity presented itself.

Vega knocked on the door to the Loft, and entered when Shepard called for him to do so.

She appeared in the living quarters space and waved him to join her.

It was a _nice_ setup, he had to admit. "This the kind of thing I can look forward to when I get my own ship?" he asked, coming down the stairs.

"You want command of a ship?" Shepard asked, arching her eyebrows and settling on one bank of couch.

Vega dropped onto the other. "Yeah, when I'm old and can't fight worth shit anymore…no offense."

"None taken." Her tone said 'you've seen me in the field—I've got nothing to prove.'

Well, duh. N7s tended not to have anything to prove to anyone.

"So, you come up here to heckle me? Or is something on your mind?"

Vega took a deep breath, let it out without saying anything, and realized he didn't know what to say. So he held out the datapad to Shepard.

She took it, scanned it over, then grinned. "Escobar's like a varren: she gets hold of something, she never lets it go."

"What did you do when they asked you to join the N-program?" Vega asked.

"They didn't. I went to them and wouldn't take an unsubstantiated 'no' for an answer," Shepard responded, settling comfortably on the couch, the datapad on the cushions beside her.

"Really?"

"Prove you're too hardheaded to quit when you should, and sometimes people take notice."

"So…was it a no-brainer choice for you, or did you have to think about it?"

Shepard considered carefully, though she continued to regard him. "I thought about it. The N-program needs people who can think between seconds. So if you have time to think and don't…it's not a good fit."

Vega nodded.

"Look, the N-program? It's a big commitment. Yeah, you get the best gear, the best postings, the best training—and even if we don't really _use_ it anymore, parachuting is amazing—but they also demand the best in return. You're going to spend a lot of time nursing injuries, and wondering why relationships don't work."

Not a big deal for him. He wasn't really looking for anything steady. And he seemed to remember a much younger version of himself constantly plastered with Band-Aids, so at least he had experience with bumps and bruises.

"What's the matter, James?"

Vega looked up at his given name, which Shepard so rarely used. Her expression was reassuring. She wouldn't laugh, wouldn't judge. "I'm just…not sure. Being a soldier's the only thing I've ever been really good at…and not because I try. Hell, I'd have kicked my own ass out years ago. Last time I had a command…" he teetered, glanced back at her. She already knew the broad stroke, but she was going to make him say it. "…I lost almost everyone. And the promoted me for it."

It was one of the most senseless things he'd ever come across in his whole life. So many people—good people, friends, and little April—dead…and the Brass _promoted_ him.

"I guess…I'm just not sure I'm ready for it. Not sure I want the responsibility."

"And I'll be honest," Shepard said very quietly. "There will be a lot of hard choices. That's one reason people make the seventh qualification: because they can make hard choices, make sacrifices, without cracking up."

"You mean like Aratoht?" Vega asked very hesitantly. If ever there was a touchy topic, that would be it.

"Yeah, like Aratoht. Let me ask you two questions."

Vega nodded.

"Do you want to join the program?"

"Yeah, sure…while we're still speaking hypothetically," he added hastily.

"Why?" No elaboration on what she meant, she left it at that three-letter word.


	377. Heart-To-Heart

Author's Note: Double update, since I missed yesterday's and probably won't be able to get tomorrow's on time. ^_^

-J-

Vega thought. And thought. And thought some more.

Shepard, who had already pointed out that N-operatives were supposed to think things through, remained silent, comfortable where she sat, waiting in easy silence.

 _Why_ did he want to join the N-program?

Well…they were the best of the best…and it would be cool to be counted among them…but that didn't sound like something one should say to an N-program alumni. Just wanting to be one of the cool kids, so to speak, wasn't really a reason. It wouldn't get you past the tough patches. And, besides, he'd never really been concerned with being one of the in-crowd.

"Why did you join?"

"To make a difference. And because a friend of mine couldn't," came the simple answer.

It was a classically Shepard answer. She wasn't all idealistic and naïve about helping people or making a difference, but she did both regularly. Sometimes specific people, sometimes nameless, faceless masses she would likely never see in person.

Was that what it meant to be an N7? To have considerable strength and skill, but to bend them to the use and needs of others?

So why did he want to join the N-program?

The answer was well-hidden in his own heart, surrounded by a very painful tangle. Because he _didn't_ want another Fehl Prime. The possibility of 'situation gone to shit' always existed…and part of him would rather not be ambushed by another scenario like that. As an N, he could _expect_ out of control situations as par for the course…but knowing they were there, knowing they were coming, he might be a little more prepared, might be able to make the right choices.

He couldn't see what he could have done differently that might have had a better outcome…because all the choices he might change were changed on the basis of what he now knew. With the information he'd had at the time…he'd made the only choice he could.

And her words from what felt like forever ago came back to him: _People say things like 'I made the right choice' or 'I did my best' because they think it will help them sleep at night. So tell me, James, does it work? That's because there was no right choice._

A kind of peace had begun to settle on the raw places the day she told him that, essentially told him—and she would know—that sometimes there was no right choice, no way to save everyone, no way to be…the kind of person who always got it right. That sometimes situations were just so messed up that surviving was the only real choice afforded to those involved.

 _Lieutenant James!_

Vega swallowed, aware that his eyes stung. "There was a little girl on Fehl. April. She died," he said shortly.

"It's always hardest when kids are involved," Shepard sighed heavily, voice full of firsthand knowledge.

He wasn't sure what he wanted, but he was sure what he didn't want. No more Aprils. No more lives cut short because he couldn't keep it from happening…or because he couldn't find an alternative solution. "If I'm there…maybe I can keep it from happening to someone else."

"I think you've got this figured out, James."

That made sense. She might have started out for the reasons she shared, but yeah. Mindoir—keeping it from happening to anyone else—would have probably become part of her reasons for doing what she did eventually. How could it not? He knew she didn't have ice water in her veins, whatever popular media might like to think.

"Maybe I do," he allowed cautiously.

"I think you would be an excellent addition to the program," Shepard continued. Now that he'd answered her question, conversation could start moving again. "I thought that from very early on. You're tough, you're not afraid to take risks to get the job done."

"But it'd be nice if I would think it through first?" Vega asked wryly.

"That comes with practice and training," Shepard allowed. "And you haven't spontaneously crashed anymore shuttles, have you?"

Vega grinned, but didn't answer.

"Yeah, yeah, none that I know of. You're willing to learn, and you have a compassionate streak. That last one isn't something the program really looks for, but it's a common enough trait if you look at the N-operatives…a few bad apples excepted."

Like that Rogers woman.

"You might as well be the first person I tell. Kai Leng was an N7."

" _No_ ," Vega couldn't stop the horrified gasp.

"Liara's…patron…found his files and sent them on to me. N7. Kicked out for murder one, but escaped custody."

Vega couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"I know, I was appalled, too," Shepard nodded.

"So, another reason to want to hunt that _pendejo_ down." The thought of an N7, the Alliance's elite, getting kicked out for murder in the first degree, then running to Cerberus for sanctuary made him feel sick.

"Sooner or later, we'll bag him," Shepard said, and her tone indicated she had a copy of Leng's birth certificate and a stamp reading 'REDACTED' ready to put on it.

"Guess if one's chucked out, you need a new one coming in," Vega said determinedly.

"It's hard when one of our own gets bad press. People like to look at the one making trouble and wonder how many more like him are running around. Even if the majority of us are alright."

…kind of like the krogan.

"So…tell me a war story."

Shepard laughed, a real, genuine, friendly laugh that said she half-expected a request like that, and was glad for the change of topic. Apparently, Kai Leng was not something she wanted to think about too much at the moment. "Well, I can't very well show you a recruitment poster, can I? I'll tell you how Alenko and I met Burns."

Vega wondered, as Shepard spoke, whether she'd picked up on his low level of distaste for Alenko. The man had been way too obtuse about Shepard's Cerberus connections.


	378. Challenge

"There's something you need to know about the N-program before you start thinking ambitiously," Shepard noted seriously. She knew that look, and this was about the same thing she'd been told early on—her and everyone who came in with her harboring high expectations and secret hopes. Those were stripped away fairly quickly. "You need to know that anything beyond the first qualification is no longer a career choice." She'd been an N3 when she realized this for herself, when she'd realized that the only way to back out was to die horribly. She'd heard it said, but it hadn't had impact at the time, just dramatic effect.

She'd re-remembered as much again when listening to Samara: _when I die it will not be in bed._ Ns rarely said things like that personally, but that sentiment itself was something that went without saying.

The trick, according to her senior Ns, was to make Death work _very_ hard for his paycheck.

"What is it?" Vega asked, intrigued.

She liked the interest in his face, an intense sort of 'I can do this' that had an unsullied quality to it. She'd seen that look before. Some went far. Some washed out. She didn't intend to give him the big speech she'd got, but it seemed like he would get at least part of it. Maybe _that_ was why it was so dramatic: so even after many years the important parts would stick, in case someone who heard the original speech had to give it to someone else.

"It's a calling. It will eat your life up." And it did. It made relationships more than difficult. You watched a lot of people die, spent a lot of time in ugly places, dealing with ugly things so other people wouldn't have to. An N did what he or she did because no one else _could_. Because the responsibilities weren't something that could be handed off, like paperwork, to the next best candidate. If an N7 was given a mission or a problem, it meant that the next best guy had tried and failed…or simply hadn't been up to the task.

Vega considered this, then eyed her speculatively. "So if two and up are callings, what's seven? Top of the dog pile?"

Shepard's smile came slowly. She remembered getting her seven-ranking. It had been overwhelming, once she got home after the ceremony—which was fairly private. In the silence and privacy of her apartment, she'd realized that there was no further 'up' she could go. That, for all intents and purposes she had become something more than a soldier. That perfection of an art she had already mastered—such as the N program could measure such things—was all she had in her life. All that remained was an unflinching, unwavering dedication to the last constant thing, all others having been shed to fall by the wayside.

She remembered the overly-dramatic speech given by the Marissa Clay, the N7 who put the little pin on her jacket, then whacked it hard enough for the spike to draw blood.

 _That's the last time you can acknowledge pain. Now, you bleed so the ungrateful don't have to; you combat whatever the Alliance throws you at so the ignorant can complain about how you did it; you make the hard choices so decent people living their lives can go on doing just that. Go home. Cry. Because once you've finished, you won't be able to afford to do it again. When those people you choose to serve are sacrificed for the greater good, because of your choices, you'll have no right to tears. You've brought this upon yourself wholly of your own volition…which is why we honor you, N7._

She remembered the stain on the white shirt once she took her jacket off, a tiny red spot above her heart. The speech was overdramatic, but there were truths in it.

"Seven is _obsession_ ," she finally answered. "Don't worry about seven. You've still got one through six to get past." They were the same words her class heard at the Vila. Seven was _obsession_. No, ' _Obsession_ ,' capital letter required.

The words of that first lecture given by a fully decked out N7— someone with _nothing_ left to prove, all glittering medals, shiny ribbons, scars and invincibility—echoed in her mind.

' _There are seven stages to this program, kids. One is service. Two is dedication. Three is fortitude. Four is stupidity. Five is suicidal. Six is masochism. Seven is Obsession…because that's all you'll have left._ '

Vega grinned at her: he could take on a challenge. The hard part was doing it _right_.

'Right' meaning 'not killed by stupidity.'

"It's not about seven. Just being asked is an honor; washing out is no shame. Getting your first qualification? That's going to be the best day of your life. And then they pick out the nicest shitholes to send you to and you spend half your mission trying not to get killed, half of it trying to achieve the objective and, interestingly enough, another half trying to figure out if you're in the right line of work."

"Wow. Only an N would say that three _halves_ make a single mission."

Shepard grinned. "Hey, whatever works, right?"

"Right." After a long pause. "I won't mess this up. I won't let you down." The words seemed to burst out, particularly given the semi self-conscious attitude he immediately projected.

"You won't," Shepard answered firmly, "you can't. Because the only person you have to prove anything to is the guy looking out of the mirror every morning."

"I get it," he answered after a moment, nodding before casting around the cabin. "Better get out of here; bit too soft for me."

"Oh, trust me, Vega. I'm a _real_ hardass when it comes to potentials," Shepard smiled.

"Aw, shit. Now I'm in for it." But he grinned 'bring it on' at her before leaving.

"There you go, Anderson," she declared to the empty room. "One rhinoceros incoming."


	379. Hymn

It started with chalking _Solus, Mordin_ onto one of the memorial wall's empty spaces and wondering how many more names she would have to add to it before all this was over. Deep down, she knew the answer: too many. Far, far too many.

It was the first new name to be added to the wall since it had been put up, and not long later she found herself looking at it and feeling profoundly grateful there was no chalked _Alenko, Kaidan_ on it. They'd come so close…

She wasn't even sure where she actually found the shell, just that she'd found it while walking off some of her nerves and anxieties on the Citadel. It wasn't anything particularly special really, a small kind of conch shell and one of a dozen or more that were more or less alike.

As soon as she saw it, she heard Mordin's last words to her: _Would have liked to run tests on the seashells._

So she'd come back to the ship with it cradled in one arm, her other hand over it, as one might carry a very small dog. It had stayed in her quarters for the rest of the day, but it kept her from sleeping. So she moved it into her office…and it kept her from focusing on her work. So she'd finally moved it again, placing it on the base of the ship's memorial wall. The shell stood out in lovely warm tones against the darkly somber monument.

It seemed to belong, and she could bear having it there. It reminded her more of Mordin Solus than the chalked name did, reminded her of his general and realistic optimism. She could imagine him running tests on seashells as a retirement thing before getting bored and finding something else; the thought always made her smile a little, in spite of the seashell being the only thing left of him.

That and Linron's nasty-gram, which she'd put on a datapad and thrown across the room more than once while cursing the woman thoroughly.

She rarely ever thought of the Genophage when she thought of Mordin. It was always the mad scientist and his seashells.

The seashell started a trend; stubby white candles, unlit, clustered to one side; an oddly pyramidal candle in a shade of sage green stood at attention near the white ones; tiny bears and rabbits and other stuffed things, previously meant for keychains, huddled and cuddled close to one another. And far, far too many yellow ribbons, many pinned to the frames of holos containing missing loved ones, wrapped around the necks of the little keychain-things or candles.

That was always the hope: that a loved one was _missing_ , not dead. Or that, if dead, it had been quick.

Oddly enough, the assemblage of items made the memorial wall, made the whole line of thought about loss and loved ones, less grim. Some were gone, but others surely remained. It was an odd sort of comfort, but Shepard suspected her view was slightly distorted, since most of the people she cared about were aboard the _Normandy_ , under her watchful eyes.

She'd added Thane's name under Mordin's, having to try three times to write _Krios, Thane_ without her handwriting wobbling wildly and thanking anything good left in the galaxy that she was working with chalk rather than something more permanent. It would have driven her crazy to have to look at grief-wobbly handwriting every day.

Councilor Esheel had actually asked to come aboard to pay her respects. She did it without ceremony, simply appearing at the time she appointed and Shepard signed off on to stand for a few moments before the memorial before placing the single flower she'd brought—an alien blossom in a shade of deep red. The Councilor did not linger once her respects were paid.

Shepard felt certain that the gratitude was genuine and not simply a show to be put on. Or maybe it was thinking about Thane so specifically during Esheel's visit. Thane had always cared about the better aspects of a person's nature.

Fresh flowers—carefully rendered non-allergenic at the shops that sold them—appeared and were removed once they began to wilt. The crew hadn't known Thane, even if they honored him. They did know his last deeds and that both Shepard and Garrus felt the loss strongly…and that EDI felt his absence also. He would have been touched at the respects paid by total strangers.

Thane had taken several days or a week for her to find something for him. It had been an accident, something she'd simply walked past and had to back up to consider. She knew the game would be useless without it, but she hardly cared.

A chess piece knight joined everything else—not a black knight, but one of the white knights. Because however dark his past had been…well. She didn't know that man. She knew Thane starting at the Dantius towers and had never, for a single moment, had any criticism of his character. He'd been a good man, from the day they met to the day he died.

Part of her prayed she wouldn't have to put the other white knight there to keep his company to mark Samara's passing. Part of her felt certain Samara wouldn't see the end of this war, but that she would go out with a bang making Death work for his paycheck…and rack up some overtime while running the Justicar down.

Shepard sat in the mess hall in the quietude, resisting the urge to write down a list of what memorial to leave for the people she cared about if she lost them. It was morbid in a way that made her want to scream. A little attention to the memorial wall was good for the soul. But she'd lingered too long over it this time and had finally torn herself away, left to grapple with being reminded of just how much she had to lose.


	380. Bungee Jump

Shepard leaned against the bar with a sigh.

Ah, the price of being notorious, on top of the price of being always available to her crew, Joker thought with very little sympathy. It seemed, now that she was back from that last op, that everyone wanted a word, or a few minutes, or just to let her know they were glad she was back in one piece…and expressing the hope that her solo road trips for the year were over and done with.

Allers wanted a word last night, but ended up doing her interview this morning. Last night had been all about Alliance business with Alenko and Vega.

Joker had to shake his head. Alenko had cornered him at breakfast with an apology, delivered as if Alenko thought if he didn't quick get it in and make it official, he might never get another opportunity. It was kind of like being whacked over the head, come to think of it.

Prothy the Prothean seemed to be gathering his courage to make a foray out onto the Citadel, in full view of numerous 'primitives' who would surely want to know what he was, since they'd never seen or read about anything four-eyed and green like him before.

"Look at this," Joker waved at Purgatory in general with his drink. "All it took was a Cerberus attack to get the folks around here to pay attention to the war!"

Shepard, a non-alcoholic drink in one hand (she had been told by the bartender that she didn't pay for drinks. Ever. Aria's orders), chuckled. Doubtless, her attention fixed on EDI, standing stock still in the midst of the dancers, taking in the experience. "How does this look any different from normal?"

Aside from the unshackled AI posing as a mobility assistance mech? "This isn't happy dancing. This is 'forget my problems' dancing. Look at the arms—see the desperation?"

"Ah."

"If a guy's waving his arms like that, he's worried about a lot more than looking stupid on the dance floor."

"Right. That's…surprisingly observant."

She didn't see it. Not really. But she'd take his word for it.

Joker looked into his glass, nerves suddenly buzzing. "I've had a lot of time to watch dancing from the sidelines," he responded.

Shepard's attention panned back and forth across the large room; doubtless her trouble radar was on high alert with this many people and this many distractions.

"Speak of watching from the sidelines." There he went. He did it. He'd committed to this talk and now he desperately wished he hadn't. "What do you think about me and EDI?"

She didn't even spit her mouthful of juice back into her cup. She simply looked over at him and swallowed the sip she'd just taken, as if the question wasn't strange or unexpected, or worth a big reaction. She looked over at EDI's mobile platform, then back to Joker himself. "Why not?"

Oh, there was such a huge list of why not…

"Because I could break a bone from a little light over the clothes action…?"

"Apart from not ever having wanted to know how anatomically correct that platform was when it had an epidermal coating…"

Joker did what Shepard had not: he spat the sip—quaff, really—he'd just taken back into his cup.

"…that's always a risk. But so are the Reapers." Shepard sipped her drink, and Joker was sure she found amusement in the mess he'd made of his own. Not that she'd ever admit it.

"Yeah…Harbinger's your fanboy, not mine." Something in Shepard's face tightened, an expression Joker didn't know how to classify, which was gone too fast to hold in recall. He just knew that, whatever that expression was, he didn't like it.

"You know what I meant. If we all ended up dead this time tomorrow…what would you regret?"

He looked at EDI, but suddenly understood why Shepard let Alenko back onto the crew. Or the part she hadn't shared with anyone else. Her stated reasons were unassailable. But he knew what most people didn't: that Alenko and Shepard had been an item. She broke Alenko's heart by dying. Alenko broke hers on Horizon, and was apparently trying to mend fences. Joker regarded Shepard's face, still benignly amused. Well, if mended fences was what she wanted, he hoped she got them.

"A shattered pelvis," he answered flatly. "And…a broken heart."

"Yeah."

"It's such a stupid idea."

"Hey, you'll never have to worry about her complaining you love your ship more than her."

Joker opened his mouth, then closed it when Shepard started to snicker. "That's…actually not a bad point."

Gently, Shepard patted his shoulder. "No one ever fell in love without being a little bit brave. And EDI is a person, when it comes down to it. People need other people. So," she leaned on the bar, smiling broadly. "If you could be out there on the dance floor right now…would you be waving your arms?"

Joker looked onto his cup, and grimaced. "Yeah."

"Then it sounds to me like you've got more to worry about than looking stupid." With that, Shepard drained her juice, but did not put the glass back on the bar.

The bartender, Joker noticed, seemed ready to refill her glass unasked. He wondered what she'd done to make Aria so grateful that her drinks weren't only free, but promptly refilled.

"Yeah." Joker took a deep breath, then put his desecrated glass on the bar. "I guess I do."

"Good luck," Shepard answered.

Joker pushed off the bar and made his way to where EDI stood observing the dance floor. "You'll blend in better if you move around a little," he observed "Like this…" Gingerly, very gingerly, he began to bob to the rhythm.

EDI smiled at him. "Are you asking me to dance?"

"Uh…yes? Maybe? Kind of?" Joker faltered.

EDI's smile broadened. Not the wicked grin she wore when planning to surprise Alenko with a familiar, previously unfriendly face, but something much more genuine.


	381. Excursion

Javik entered the place called 'the Loft' where Shepard lived. There was a clinging aura of pain and fear here. It was the pain and fear he noticed first. Massive tanks adorned one wall of her workspace, and a frosted glass door separated the office from her living quarters. Her desk was littered with datapads and she looked as though she was working hard.

"Javik?" Shepard blinked up at him. It wasn't uncommon for crewmen to come up to see her, he knew this. It was uncommon for _him_ to do so, however. "What's up?"

"I do not believe your races share power. So I should like to see your Citadel for myself," he announced. It was neither his habit nor his custom to preface his ideas, so he did not. "When it is not infested with traitors." It would not be the first time Shepard had joined a fellow warrior—or even some of the non-warriors—on an excursion. And she had never made any indication that she differentiated between him and her own people.

For a moment she looked weary, then something like understanding crept into her pale face. The understanding brought a wry smile with it, and she snorted as she got to her feet. "It's the center of galactic _politics_ , Javik. If you don't want traitors, you may never end up going."

"Then we shall load for krogan," he allowed.

Shepard's wry grin turned into a broad smile. "Wise on the whole. When did you want to do this?"

"Sooner would be preferable." One never knew if 'tomorrow' would come. He had begun to feel a little more secure in the idea of 'tomorrow' since he had begun settling into life on the _Normandy_.

"Fair enough."

And that was all it took.

The Citadel was a big, clean place. Even with the repairs from the Cerberus attack, it still managed to look unnaturally inviting. Little bug-like things Shepard called 'Keepers' scrambled here and there. And, in an undertone, she confirmed that they were the Citadel's caretakers…by the Reapers' design. Not that it was a concern now, since his own people had apparently meddled with them enough to prevent the little bugs from serving their right masters.

There were many races everywhere. Blue asari, humans in a plethora of shades, turians all plated and lanky, salarians with big eyes and wide mouths.

Even the _lizard_ people had evolved. It was…disconcerting.

"This place is unnatural," Javik announced from the Presidium overlook to which Shepard had taken him. "A perfect illusion."

"You're the third or fourth person to stand on the Presidium and tell me that," Shepard observed.

"Because it is _true_." Javik studied the masses milling around. "In my cycle, this place was little more than myth and legend. No one I knew had ever seen the Citadel. We used to tell stories of this place, imagining the wonders it contained."

"So what do you think?"

The truth was he didn't know what to think, to be a living Prothean standing here, the last of his kind, proof of his own people's forethought and ingenuity…and also of the Reapers' ability to make such things fail, as he was the _only_ one of his kind. "I think," he answered, falling back on his usual taciturnity, "it is too full of primitives. It is distracting."

"Well, you're here, too. That's something, right? A Prothean to leaven out the—"

"Pardon me…?"

Javik flinched at the unexpected sound. Shepard's hand shot to his arm to keep him from moving as instinct demanded. Turning, he discovered that the reason the thing had sneaked up on him was because it hung in a kind of suspensor field. It had no feet to make noise with.

It was a strange pink thing, luminous in a rather pleasing manner and as it spoke it flashed and glowed. Bioluminescent communication. "This one has been listening…this one suspects _you_ are a Prothean!"

Javik frowned, reached out a finger and touched it on the bump most likely to be analogous to a nose.

Hanar. Sea creatures improbably able to live in an open air environment. Javik blinked, aware that this interface was nothing like with Shepard, with her scarred mind and Prothean shards embedded in it. It was reassuring in some ways to know he would not find himself dreaming of fellows beached along the tideline. "I remember your kind when you were still minnows in the ocean," he announced.

To Javik's shock the hanar bobbed back like a strange balloon. "This one is unworthy! This one has seen the face of an Enkindler!" The hanar's play of color along its soft body shimmered and shifted in its agitation. The ecstatic noise drew even more attention.

"They consider your people to be their gods," Shepard supplied in an undertone.

"What a pity we did not teach them to speak better," he responded, also under his breath.

Javik braced himself as several of the primitives, attracted by the hanar's ridiculous fuss, approached. They were all eyes, all bright and lively interest. They were none of them warriors. It was easy to tell, and they looked oddly fragile, even compared to the non-warriors of Shepard's crew. Even the softest and weakest among her crewmen was harder and more formidable than most of these individuals arrayed before him. The exception was a lone turian; their people did seem fairly competent at war, though this one lacked the signs of a battle-hardened fighter.

That the galaxy still allowed such creatures to live was disconcerting to his mind.

"Are you really a Prothean?" an asari asked.

His innards squirmed. She reminded him a _bit_ too much of Liara, with her big eyes and keen, almost naïve interest…

"I am."

Her eyes grew wider and Javik inwardly groaned. He had hoped that Liara was an oddity among her people. Apparently she was, but only because of the sturdy pragmatism she exhibited while working for Shepard. Otherwise she was all too representative of her kind…


	382. Comrade

"Thank you," the asari beamed up at him. "That meant a lot."

Javik wished he had just stuck with his original 'you have no hope, so do what you can while you can before the Reapers run you over' speech.

They were _just like_ Liara, these other asari: naïve and foolish. Strangely, the thought didn't bring the usual annoyance, but something quite different. He studied the various primitives again. They looked at him as though he knew something they didn't, some kind of deep wisdom that he could convey to them if he chose…and they hoped he would choose to do so.

Could they not see that he had no answers for them? His people had died. The Protheans were as flawed and fallible as any other race that came before—no better, perhaps worse, but ultimately all shared the same fate: the Reapers had destroyed them and nearly erased them from the galaxy's memory.

And this cycle was all too likely to follow those countless precedents. If his people only managed to slow the Reapers…then the best this cycle could hope for was to do the same and then perish. Perhaps the next cycle would do better, but he doubted it.

And yet…the fact that he had changed tracks at Shepard's warning nudge, that he had recognized the hint for what it was, told him that he didn't like the idea of this cycle ending any more than he had liked the ending of his own. Maybe it was because they all seemed so…unhardened…by war. They still had hope for a future, believed in something called a 'better tomorrow' instead of expecting the same harsh bleakness as 'today' and 'yesterday.'

He told himself that his upset about this cycle's fate was because it meant the Reapers would have won. Again.

But if he was honest…

This wasn't his cycle. It was full of primitives and idealists and he didn't belong here.

But there were yet places with small children accompanied by Ruffie-dogs…and the idea mattered to him in a strange kind of way he didn't like to think about too much.

He blamed himself for having stupidly exposed himself to Shepard's contaminating being—though he couldn't blame her for being damaged. She had left herself open to so much but he could not fault her for it. And he approved that she carried whatever suffering the damages had imparted to her with dignity and silence.

As to having been contaminated by her…it was strange to feel that there was no fault, no party that could reasonably be held responsible. He could not have known or predicted the effects of 'reading' her, but he castigated himself for letting it happen anyway. Those little smudges of her left by a damaged mind upon a whole and healthy one disturbed his peace and rattled his calm.

Hence why he did not like to think about it. They touched parts of him abandoned long ago and for good reasons.

"It must be a real honor to have a Prothean fighting alongside you," the turian observed, his rumbling voice bringing Javik out of his increasingly morose thoughts. He knew that 'morose' wasn't the accurate word for his mental state, but he'd be damned if he used the right word, even in the confines of his own mind.

"It is," Shepard answered promptly and with her usual conviction. "And I'm proud to serve with him."

Something in the simple words gave him one of those unpleasant squiggles which he'd begun to identify as atrophied parts of his psyche feebly kicked to get his attention. Usually he ignored them, especially once he realized what they were. However, there was an undeniable note in her voice that removed any doubt of whether or not she spoke for the benefit of anyone or anything but her on beliefs and conscience.

He felt oddly compelled to say something back. It was yet another thing to which he was unaccustomed. "The Captain is a capable soldier as well," he announced in a similarly supportive tone. He wanted to smirk when Shepard actually looked surprised to hear it. Then, to cover his discomfort over having offered such a heartfelt compliment in front of strangers… "For a human."

Shepard snorted, shaking her head as if the remark was _far_ too in character…and something she was content to indulge since she _knew_ there was no malice meant. Not at the moment, anyway.

"…who once lived in caves…" he added wickedly.

"And _there's_ the personality we all know and love," she shot back in an undertone, grinning at him.

At one time he might have fretted that she'd learned to understand him so well. By this point he accepted the fact that she did and was even sometimes glad of it. It meant they didn't fight more than was needful, and fighting was counterproductive.

Then, when everyone seemed content to just state at him, he cleared his throat. "Thank you, Captain. I have enjoyed my time here, walking among the…young." The word 'primitive' had scuttled away from his tongue a second before uttering it.

His statements conveyed the proper message: you can all stop staring at me with your two eyes and go about your frivolous business.

"You ready to head back to the ship?" Shepard asked, once the gathering had dispersed—though attention kept pouring in as he and Shepard strolled along. Or perhaps he was simply taking notice of the attention for the first time.

"No. I believe am ready to leave the Presidium, however. People here have too much time for eavesdropping," he answered, still frowning at the clean perfection of this Reaper creation.

"I'll take you down into the Wards. It's a lot less squeaky. There's more to look at." She sounded glad of the change herself. Then again, if his conjectures were correct, she spent much time on the Presidium doing things she would rather avoid.

"It will be an interesting experience." And he truly hoped it would be.


	383. Chow Down

It was a shopping district, Javik decided as they walked along the thoroughfare. It was so crowded and busy that no one really paid attention to him or to Shepard.

He liked the riot of color, the chaos of it all—even if it smelled of primitives and strange fragrances amidst everything else. Two eyes and pathetic senses of smell seemed to mark this cycle as being 'normal attributes.'

Some of the other odors were pleasant, however; the smells of cooking meat and grilling fish wafted through the cacophony. In his cycle, food was strictly for the purposes of nourishment. Neither flavor nor presentation had been a concern. One ate what one could get.

In this cycle, food was still plentiful _if_ one was in the right places. The food aboard the _Normandy_ was wide and varied, and the security of the ship allowed him to experiment with what did and did not suit his physiology. But the smells of meat and fish, even dressed up as they were with strange sauces, made his mouth water.

Some of the food vendors were little more than push-carts suspended by mass effect fields to allow smooth transport without spilling. Others were like niches with a food preparation space in back and a counter with stools in front feeding four to six people at a time.

There were bigger establishments too, all advertising food that was foreign to someone.

"You know…" Shepard nodded, as if she'd noticed a pattern in his attention. "Come on, I'll buy you lunch." With that, she tapped his elbow with the back of her hand and veered to the left.

They walked for some distance then stopped. Because he had interfaced with her mind, he could read one of the sign's flashing proclamations as clearly as Shepard could _:_ _'Welcome to Relay Rob's, home of the Relay Ribs!'_

"Just think, when I first got here they were a hole in the wall," she marveled as she headed into the restaurant.

Odors assailed him. A miasmic cloud containing alcohol, cooking meat, strange odors that mingled specifically with the meat, and something…artificial and green.

"I haven't been here since—they made me a _plate_!"

Javik blinked at this. "Since they made you a _plate_?"

"Yeah, look! The Shepard Special…" Her expression had opened into unparalleled delight, and it made her look much younger than she usually did.

He frowned at the menu board and there it was: _9 Ribs, Tater-Babies and a Drink (the Shepard Special)._

"What is a tater-baby?" Javik asked edgily.

"Fried potatoes," Shepard answered absently. "Hey, I'd like one Shepard Special with Astro-Fizz for me, and a Big Box of Ribs with a Sauce Sampler for my friend here…and water." Shepard handled the transaction, exchanged a few remarks with the staff upon being recognized as 'the real Captain Shepard!'

Music spilled out of hidden speakers and the floor underfoot was some kind of green shaggy stuff. All the tables were simple wooden things with red- or blue-checked cloth covers and folding-type chairs. And each table had its own big umbrella to cover it—which made sense, since the ceiling was painted to mimic a static sky. All the umbrellas were in bright colors, and all of them proclaimed _'_ _Relay Rob's, home of the Relay Ribs!'_

Shepard led them to a table near the back of the restaurant, so they could sit with their backs more or less to a wall. "If you get tired of water let them know—I just didn't want to ruin your experience with weird soft drink flavors."

"I am certain it will be fine," Javik answered.

A very short while later, a waitress came up balancing a folding stand and a big tray. "My name is Cindy and I'll be looking after you today." She un-collapsed the former and set the tray on it. "Here's the Shepard Special, Captain," she said eagerly, handing Shepard a big plate of ribs gently charred on the outside and dripping in a thick, sweetish-smelling sauce, then a smaller plate of golden wedges. "And the Sauce Sampler," the waitress handed him a large plate of ribs with several wells around the outer edge, each well containing a paper cup with a thick sauce in it and a tiny notation beneath.

All the printing made little sense, since it was obvious each species maintained its own style of written word.

"If you need anything else, just flag me down."

"Thank you, Cindy," Shepard smiled. She stopped smiling as soon as the waitress left and immediately shook out a napkin and set it to the side before picking up one of the ribs and immediately peeling the flesh from the bone with a grin of evident enjoyment and satisfaction.

Javik eyed the cups of sauce and the unadorned ribs on his plate with more curiosity than he would ever admit to. True, he was hungry, but for someone whose diet was geared towards meat…

He nibbled on one of the ribs, taking in the rather uninspired flavor. In his cycle it would have been a luxury: juicy cooked meat still piping hot. He stuck a finger into one of the sauces (annotated 'sweets for the sweet!') and tasted it. His mouth immediately began watering. It was sweet, but had a bite to it. So he immediately dipped his finger back into the sauce and ran it across one of the ribs.

It tasted strange by itself, and strange on the rib, but it was the kind of strange he could live it. Unfortunately, there was just enough to really slather a single rib—or be abstemious with two—before it was gone.

Hot sauce. Spicy sauce. Smoky sauce. Sour sauce. And beneath it all the flavor and texture of perfectly cooked meat that came cleanly off the bones. It certainly seemed like all the ribs one could desire, for when he finished Shepard immediately wanted to know if he wanted more before contentedly flagging down the waitress for 'another round.'


	384. Hot Stuff

It had bacon in it.

Whatever whoever was cooking had _bacon_ in it. And bacon usually meant _eggs._

It was already a breakfast of champions, which was lucky since this ship needed to be full of champions.

Alenko tucked in his shirt and followed his nose—as it were—into the mess hall to find Shepard standing with Palmer behind the cooktop with a spatula in one hand and the other on the handle of a griddle, and a container of reconstituted eggs (carefully reconstituted if he knew Shepard) close by.

But there was bacon. And the griddle was already full of thin pancakes and eggs sizzling pleasantly as Shepard scrambled them.

Her expression, however, was the same one she wore when working on her omnitool. She was on a quest for technical perfection—or a lack of scorching on the crew's breakfast.

Speaking of whom, bacon and coffee—which he could smell now that he was closer—seemed to have lured out most of the crew.

Upon fetching his own mug, Alenko caught sight of it. Between his mug and one he instinctively knew was Shepard's reposed a black mug with a pair of angry eyes and a lividly red, bushy mustache. It was turned so the image gazed out at the room.

"I didn't know you could cook."

The words weren't spoken particularly loudly, but they did make Alenko turn around. So, Vega had stayed. And, if reports were true…he thought Shepard looked like a 'Lola'. It was ridiculous.

"I'm a single space marine, Vega. I have to know how to cook or I'd starve. I just…don't get creative."

"Uh huh. Kinda hard to ruin eggs…"

Alenko poured his coffee hurriedly, then made a beeline to join the conversation. "You got the goobers, right? Tell me you got the goobers."

Shepard gave him a wolfish grin. "I've gotta eat this shit, too. _No_ goobers. I give you the Shepard guarantee…" and with that, she flipped the spatula, caught it by the handle, flipped the nearest two thin pancakes, then gave the eggs a stir.

"Very nice," Alenko approved in mock-archness.

His emergency brake between mind and mouth actually engaged. He _had_ intended to share his mother's joke about 'Singaporean eggroll' (which meant she put an egg on the counter and rolled it about with one finger). However, given his audience…

…it was a disaster waiting to happen.

"You okay, Major?" Vega asked.

"Huh?" Well, it was better than an innocent joke dragged through the sewer by marine minds. And Shepard would give him that _look_ when she was certain no one else would intercept it, then he'd blush and that was embarrassing…

"It's just Alenko spacing out, Vega. He does that from time to time."

His emergency backup for social situations also engaged. "Just wondering if we've got any hot sauce. I can't stand barefoot eggs."

Chuckles and smiles around the room: it was a more common expression for some than for others…and one of Williams', come to think of it. He resisted the urge to glance at the memento of that particular fallen comrade.

"On the table…you ever back off on that crap?" Shepard asked.

"Only when Williams's saintly mother sent that salsa."

Shepard shuddered, but Vega perked up. "Salsa?"

" _Good_ stuff."

Shepard dropped out of the conversation, but a second later plates of eggs and bacon in the little pancakes were thumped on the counter. "Probably ought to let you assemble them on your own…" Shepard mused.

"Aw, but this is nice too," Vega pointed out. "How many people can say Captain Shepard made him breakfast?"

"I should have burned your damn bacon, Tank." The nickname took the edge off Shepard's rejoinder.

Suddenly Alenko saw, not a spatula, but a weapon in the hand of Captain Shepard.

"Looks fantastic, Shepard," he declared.

" _You_ can have seconds."

"Gotta love those biotic nutrition regimens," Alenko clicked his tongue and winked at her—with a very comical effect.

"What if _I_ told you I looked fantastic? Would my bacon be saved?" Vega asked.

"Vega…you wouldn't be able to _tell_ if I burned it because of all that _crap_ you put on it. You two should start a club." Shepard flipped pancakes, then motioned with her spatula to clear out for the next shift.

Alenko sat down at one of the table as, watching Shepard banter with Donnelly and Daniels.

"Nah, man." Vega shunted the Tabasco sauce away from Alenko's hand and supplanted it with another (marked 'Vega' with a biohazard sticker obscuring most of the ingredient list). "Leave the weak stuff for the tender-mouths."

"Thanks…I think…" Alenko eyes the bottle suspiciously—Vega's smile was a little too earnest for having so many teeth.

Alenko knew what this was: getting a feel for the new guy.

He would call it 'hazing', given that smile.

"All right." He knew Vega was waiting for him to _try_ it before he used it…but Vega would just have to learn to live with disappointment.

"You even check the name on the bottle?" Vega asked, cutting into his breakfast wrap.

Alenko couldn't believe Shepard made her own wraps. The things you never knew about people.

But he checked the name on the bottle and found himself smiling at it.

 _Straight to Hell Sauce._

"Nice." And with that, Alenko finished applying sauce and resealed the bottle.

"Someone get their omnitool: I want to see if he melts or combusts," Shepard called.

"Who…oh. I've got this," came Garrus' question and answer. "Ugh—that stuff _smells_!"

"Smells or smells _good_?" Shepard responded.

Garrus snort indicated the latter and knowledge that physiology barred him from finding out if it tasted as good as it smelled.

It was hot. Heat upon heat seared at Alenko's tongue, made sweat appear beneath his eyes, and raised his internal temperature about a thousand degrees.

Kelvin.

"It's hot," Alenko hoped he wouldn't slur his words. "But that's about it."

"'That's about it'?" Vega demanded.

"Yeah…there's no flavor," Alenko continued eating mechanically. "It's just hot."


	385. The Right Words

"Door's open!" Shepard called in response to Alenko's knock. The door hissed open and she turned in her chair. From the looks of things, she was in the middle of drafting a report to someone.

"Shepard, can I talk to you for a minute?" Alenko asked.

"Sure," Shepard got out of her chair. "I'll be glad to get away from this for more than a minute, so no rush." She stretched her shoulders, then shook her hands as though to restore warmth to them. "Come on in."

"Uh…no, out here on the landing…that's probably best." His stomach was so knotted up with apprehension that he wanted to cover his face in his hands, as if to stall nausea.

Liara had given him the same piece of advice several times, with assurances—in one case a very sharp 'don't _ever_ suggest I'm joking about something like this again!' assurance—that she was in earnest. Still, it was hardly his way of doing things…but Liara seemed to think it would somehow break up the forming congestion, help them repair things.

He wanted to fix things. He wanted to fix things badly enough to blindly trust Liara's strange advice. The limbo was just…it was worse than when a-grav disengaged in an emergency.

How Liara found out that there had once been an 'us' of Shepard and himself he didn't know, wasn't sure he wanted to. But somehow she had, and had inserted herself into the matter in a way that smacked of a professional fixer and not a gossipy matchmaker.

He was almost sure she got involved purely for Shepard's benefit. Liara liked him well enough, but she was truly fond of Shepard.

"Okay…are you all right?" Shepard asked concernedly as she stepped out onto the landing, the office door hissing shut behind her.

If he was going to do this, he was not going to set foot in her room. Not even her office. Just in case it went badly…at least he wouldn't make the biggest mistake of his life in her personal space.

"Alenko?" Shepard peered up into his face, her brows furrowed.

"Sorry, spacing out." He grinned ruefully. Now that he was here…he couldn't do it. He _couldn't_.

"Hey, I know things are a little weird, but it's me. You're part of my crew; you can talk to me," she encouraged.

Shepard _was_ devoted to her crew. He'd heard, by now, all about how she'd stormed the Collector's Base in a white-hot fury because they'd abducted her crew, how she'd set off a neutron purge that obliterated any organic or quasi-organic in there with extreme prejudice. They'd dared to lay hands on her crew. She'd burned their house down—with them still in it.

But this wasn't crew-type business.

He took a deep breath. "Shepard…I'm sorry." Best to apologize first and then apologize again if Liara turned out to be less than benevolent in her intentions.

Before Shepard could ask him what he was apologizing for, he took her face in both hands and brought their mouths together. 

As Liara suggested 'get hold of her head and kiss her, stupid.'

-J-

Shepard's first reaction was knee-jerk, to restore distance. She certainly put her hands on his shoulders and meant to push herself away. She got the half step back, the one that would give her traction for her follow through, but the follow-through died as she put her hands against his muscular shoulders. The kiss wasn't invasive, just pressure, undemanding.

It was the warm, callused hands cradling her face that brought back something Liara had said: 'if you want to fix this, then all you need to do is get hold of his head and kiss him stupid.'

Something inside broke.

When the stakes were highest, he'd trusted her. In spite of every fear and hang-up and how bad the situation had looked. He'd trusted her over himself. He'd blindly jumped rather than adhering to a cautious nature.

That clinched it. Anything else was peripheral. She was just so damn tired. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally. It suddenly overwhelmed her, the pressures of life and something like relief, all at once.

She stepped into him, one arm sliding around him, the other burying itself in his hair. She didn't care if her fingernails scraped, as she shifted the angle of her head to receive and return his kiss. She didn't care if the fingers digging into his back ended up leaving little bruises.

She did care that he was warm, and solid, and real—and that when she leaned her weight into him, he didn't give ground or lean back. He simply stood there, as solid and immovable as any solid thing she'd ever taken cover behind.

And that knowledge, reinforced by the way warm hands slid from her face to gather her up, the way a thin biotic field spread reassuringly, protectively, around them both sapped the façade of strength and rock-solid invincibility she maintained for the sake of her crew and everyone else.

She let him tuck her head under his chin, shivering as she stood there. She felt raw. Painfully aware of how much she'd shaved off of herself and horribly concerned about how much left she had to give before she gave out. It was a bleak prospect, wondering when she would finally go down and not get back up.

The quasi-breakdown loosened up words previously locked in a pressurized case somewhere near the bottom of her brain. "I'm running out of strength to do this," she whispered, a huge shudder running through her.

"Then have mine." Alenko's chest rumbled under her forehead, the sound as much a sensation as an auditory stimulus. "I'm here, Jalissa. Whatever you need."

He sounded pretty raw, too, as if she'd just confirmed every concern he'd had about her.

"And you might as well know right now," he added as gently as he could, "I'm gonna push back."

She didn't know if anyone else would understand the sentiment…but she did. And it helped.


	386. Present

It started as a twitch. The twitch slowly became a tremble, a shivery involuntary movement that ran through Shepard's whole body. Muscles tensed in an attempt to stop the shaking.

Alenko slid a hand up her spine and buried his fingers in her hair. She always seemed so composed—or battle-ready. He wondered how many people would believe that she was only human, with human frailties and human limitations.

She gave a small sound that might have been denial of the cause of the shakes, but she was only flesh and bone. A hard swallow became a shaky breath; a shaky breath came a sort of stifled gasp; a stifled gasp gave way to a cut-off whimper, which gave way to real tears, which she tried valiantly to stifle, then at the very least just keep quiet.

Alenko knew, standing there rocking her slowly, that she wasn't crying over him. He'd simply made enough of a chink in her composure for everything no one saw and—with the possible exception of Garrus and a very small handful of others—no one even knew about.

He would have liked to think he was better at dealing with this than Garrus would be, if only because Garrus was a spiky, spindly individual with hard, skin-scuffing plates. That did not make for comfortable hugs or tactile comfort.

She had always seemed smaller in his arms than she had when standing on her own; he remembered that much. He also seemed to remember as being a little softer—but not much—in her figure. The bones in her spine stood out more prominently than he remembered; she seemed generally and overall harder than she had been, muscles pulled tight into well-defined clumps. Improper diet and wartime stress had been chipping away at her and, whatever the reason, it had been allowed to do so.

He doubted this was negligence from the crew; it was just Shepard. Thane had it right: Shepard did an admirable job of keeping body and soul together, but she neglected her own welfare.

It wasn't okay, but it was understandable. Fortunately, she had people who did care about her welfare even if doing anything about it was difficult at best. "Shepard?" he asked, once her shaky breaths sobs had settled into simple, irregular breathing, all muffled by his shirt, now well-spotted with tears. "I'm going to move you off this landing."

She didn't answer or give any sign that she heard him. Maybe it was trust or maybe she was just past caring what happened to her at this point. It would have been frightening to find out just how badly off Shepard was if he hadn't been there; if he hadn't felt he could do something, anything, about it.

Words from a long-ago book, forgotten until now, came back to him: _if you took him up now and shook him, he'd rattle inside. Emptied!_

Alenko grasped her thighs and hiked her up so he could move her. The only concession she made to a change in position was to lock her ankles and shift her arms so they rested bandolier fashion over one shoulder and under one arm, her flushed cheek pressed against his neck, her chin digging into his shoulder. Other than that, she was impassive, out of strength to be untrusting or cautious.

Or maybe she'd simply been waiting for an excuse not to be and had never been as far over him, as sealed away, as he imagined.

He settled in the corner of the couch in her quarters, prompting her gently to find a more comfortable position than straddling his lap—something like that was fine short-term, but hard on the knees in the long term. It took her a moment, but she settled down again.

She couldn't see his smile as he spied the brown bear he had picked (in collaboration with Thane, who had cared so much) nestled in the space between Shepard's pillows. Waiting. Watchful.

Her breathing slowly settled, her posture slowly loosened.

Just when he thought she'd settled into sleep—and was relieved that she had, if what he had pieced together about her sleep habits was in any way true—she began to speak in the slow, slightly blurred way of someone not quite asleep but definitely not awake. "I missed you. Since I lost you…some part of me has been gone, too."

He'd known he'd hurt her, had been aware of the fact since Horizon. It hurt, now, to hear echoes of the damage, but he would bear it. He would take his lumps in silence and with grace, knowing he deserved them. It was a relief, in some ways, to get the lump-taking underway. "You haven't lost me, Jalissa," he answered softly, careful not to let the volume of speech shake her out of this halfway place. "I'm right here." And he always would be, though he knew better than to say it out loud. That was something requiring proof, not promises.

"Mm…I like that," Shepard murmured, nestling herself a little closer.

A few moments later, EDI spoke up, tone low as she dimmed the lights. "Major? The Captain's vitals indicate that she is properly asleep. If you are careful, you may leave without waking her."

"Thanks, EDI." He looked down at Shepard, lines of exhaustion etched into her face, eyes still behind her eyelids, the hand tangled in his shirt, seeking out whatever comfort she could find, hung flaccid-fingered, snagged on the fabric rather than fisted in it. "But I'm alright."

Was he reading too much into the silence that followed when he wondered if EDI would prefer he left Shepard to her rest? Or had the AI tried reverse psychology?

He would have stayed without EDI's suggestion he leave. If numb or tingling limbs bought a few hours of uninterrupted sleep for her, what did it matter to him? From what he could tell, what she needed most was his presence. So present he would stay.


	387. Novocain

Steve Cortez wasn't sure how long Shepard had been standing there. All he knew was that, gradually and by degrees, he had started to feel that he wasn't alone anymore. Or, more accurately, that he wasn't standing by himself.

 _I've never felt so alone._

The look on her face said it all: she knew what that was. It was one thing to know her history, that she'd lost everyone that mattered at a young age on one bloody night. It was another to realize that her empathy came from having experienced soul-ripping loss…and of being uncertain how to help others cope, as if her experience of loss didn't stack up to that experienced by others. It was a strange thing to think, but he felt sure it was true.

He also felt sure she would stand there, unobtrusive but ever-present, until he either left or acknowledged her presence.

"Hey, Captain." How long _had_ she been standing there?

"Hey, Cortez," she answered, moving to stand beside him, as opposed to being just barely within his peripheral vision.

He was glad she didn't ask if he was alright. That was a question to which she already knew the answer: he wasn't alright. Of course he wasn't.

"Mindoir had one of these in Central City." She spoke so calmly, as if she were commenting on some nondescript destination one might find on any world.

"Did you ever go?"

"…no. I didn't think I could take seeing the concrete evidence of losing the colony. Maybe I should have gone, but I didn't. But people handle grief differently and you're not me. So maybe there's something here that you need."

He gave a humorless snort as he took in the piles of refugees and the ever-growing memorial wall. So many people sharing _loss_. Loss was an impersonal thing, like a natural disaster. It didn't care who you were or what you were. It struck out at you, all the same.

Shepard seemed to have either exhausted what she had to say or sensed that quietude in which to think was desirable. When he glanced at her profile, he found her attention fixed on the wall. A crease formed, by degrees, between her eyebrows until, finally, her eyes fell shut.

It was strange that grief left him feeling as though he understood her a bit better. He could be wildly mistaken, but the thought helped. "I've just been standing here, holding this," he waved the recording vaguely, "for I don't know how long."

Shepard's attention left her own contemplations to return to him. "Your past is yours. No one can take it away, and moving on or getting past the bad that happens is your choice. No one can make it for you. People push because they don't know how to help; they think that if they don't, someone they care about might sink and not come back up."

That sounded about right. It also sounded like the kind of insight someone got from 'been there, done that.'

Cortez took a deep breath, then moved forward to stand at the wall, the soft sounds of stifled tears mingling with the uncomfortable pound of his own heart. He had to do this…if only because Robert had asked it of him. What was more important: to let Robert rest in peace or his own need to not let go?

He set the recording on an empty spot, careful not to disarrange anyone else's offerings too much. His eyes stung as he looked at the recording. For a moment, he meant to play it one more time. He stopped, though. How many 'one more times' would it end up being? And for so many others here there was no opportunity for 'one more time.' This, then, was the first stage in letting go. "Goodbye, Robert." The two little words, barely audible even to himself, were like vicious knife blows.

Part of him screamed that this was the first step in forgetting him, that it shouldn't be done.

But it was what Robert had wanted.

Cortez withdrew from the wall to find Shepard exactly where he'd left her, once again thinking behind closed eyes.

He felt suddenly empty, hollow, like a cored apple. A tentative hand appeared on his shoulder, as if unsure whether the action would be unwelcome. It was rare to see Shepard uneasy about something that didn't threaten the lives of those following her. He gave her an 'it's okay' half-smile and put an arm around her shoulders, as she was doing for him.

The drape of her arm became more assured and her hand tightened on his shoulder. They stood there like that, in silence, for some time. Strangely, he no longer felt, when surrounded by a crowd, that everyone was moving around and flowing past him, while he alone stood still with life passing by.

"Does it get easier?" The question wrenched itself out of him. He wasn't sure what answer he wanted to hear or what answer she would give, but his guts told him that any answer would be better than the blindness he now faced.

Shepard considered for a moment before answering. "I'm not sure. It doesn't hurt the way it used to…but I'm also starting to forget things. My little brothers' faces, my older brother's voice…my little sisters' favorite foods. I don't even remember my homeroom teacher's name. But the pain and the anger? They're not there either, poisoning me like they used to. Grief is different for different people, and I don't have all the answers. I can tell you this: I'll be here while you're looking for them."

Cortez closed his eyes, fighting tightness in his throat, aware of the warm, comforting line of Shepard's arm hung around his shoulders, and the sturdy, immovable mass of her standing beside him. "Thanks for being here, Shepard."

"I'm here for as long as you need me."

The sentiment brought the tears, which ended up disappearing into the shoulder of Shepard's shirt.


	388. Cuddle

Shepard paused playback, groaned as she stood up. Slouching on the couch was _not_ good for her back! "It's open!" At this rate, she would never get more than ten minutes into the production: she kept being interrupted or called away. Fortunately, it was now _late_ , and most of the crew was either asleep or still enjoying the local nightlife.

She had thought the timing was perfect, if later than she would have liked, to remember the former resident mad scientist. The skin of her neck still remembered the seeker's sting while testing the repulsion fields.

"Hey, am I interrupting?" Alenko asked, once he located her.

"Just trying to watch a vid." She beckoned, indicating he was free to enter her personal living space, then sat back down on the couch. "I've been trying to do this since Mordin died."

"What is it?" Alenko asked, sitting down catty corner from her.

" _The Pirates of Penzance_. He did a variant with a salarian cast but…I dunno. Seemed apropos at the time when I decided that was the best way to remember him: find out what all the excitement was about." She shifted, as though expecting criticism.

"Sounds reasonable. How's it going?"

"I haven't gotten more than ten minutes in at any attempt, and if it weren't for subtitles I'd be screwed." Shepard chuckled, slouching forward. "Not much into opera, myself, but this…this could be okay." Not that she had much to judge.

"I saw this when I was a kid—Mom, Dad and I went to a live performance," Alenko smiled, regarding the static image. "It's okay. Call it 'decaf opera.'"

"So, what brings you up here?"

"Marines get antsy at night," Alenko shrugged. "Just wondered if you might want to forego the nightly round and just wander the Presidium. Or the wards, doesn't really matter," he added quickly.

Shepard bit her lip. "Actually, I'm dead-dog tired. I'd rather stay in tonight…but if you want you…" She bit her lip again. "If you want to share the flick, you're welcome." She spat the words out a little too quickly, as though careful consideration might discard them.

"I'd like that. And I happen to know where there's a box of snack cakes. The golden cream-filled kind."

Shepard chuckled, glancing at her small array of mindless snack food…and two carefully-sliced peaches.

"I'll be right back."

"I'll be here." Shepard curled up on the couch, mixed feelings tugging at her stomach. On the one hand, this was the sort of thing she once wished they'd been able to have, the opportunity to share vids.

Part of her, the insecure part of her that she kept locked away so carefully, still felt the effects of having been burned by this relationship. She was willing to work past it, wanted to work past it…but this small, treacherous part of her refused to be utterly stifled.

Maybe it was good that it was there: it would save her from blind, doglike devotion.

She had to smile at the idea of her being so blindly devoted to _anyone_ that she lost track of reality.

Alenko's return silenced the internal assessments of various emotional states and paradoxes. "Hey, hey, hey! No _boots_ on the _furniture_!" Shepard protested, as Alenko settled facing the screen, legs stretched out on the cushions. "What's _wrong_ with you?" But the remark was only half serious. It sounded like something her mother might have said and, judging from his initial expression, something _he_ had probably heard before from his own.

Some things carried across space and time, apparently.

Alenko immediately assumed an expression of mock guilt and contrition, which was ruined by the impish grin that refused to be mothballed. She liked that grin; if people had changed so drastically in two years, she could honestly say that this grin evidenced change that could be considered _good_. It was in the same vein as Alenko being able to go toe-to-toe with her and _win_.

"Better?" he asked.

"I am…appeased," she responded with teasing slowness.

Alenko tossed her a package of snack cakes, which she deftly caught one-handed. "Better?"

"You're throwing _food_ at me, after you put your boots all over my couch…" Shepard declared, as though puzzled and trying to rectify data. Her mouth, however, remained upturned. Humor was a good way to cope with uncertain situations. Lightness of mood went a long way to establishing some kind of temporary equilibrium.

Alenko swung his legs over the edge of the couch and scooted closer to her. "Would you rather I sidle up to you and covertly pass them off to you? The cakes, not the boots. No offense, but that's one pair I think you can't fill."

Shepard snorted, having left herself open to both remarks and regretting that he had closed the comment's loophole so quickly. The memory of smuggled snacks still made her grin shiftily, evicting the mental image of her trying to wear Alenko's footgear.

It was not that she enjoyed breaking the rules. She simply had enjoyed interpreting the _intent_ of the rules.

And nothing said 'we're square' like bringing someone contraband snacks.

After un-pausing the vid, she opened the wrapping. "Help yourself." She jerked her chin at the snacks, claiming one of the peach slices.

Alenko put a little distance between the two of them, but not as much as there originally was. It was just enough to keep from seeming to crowd her. Things still being a little shaky, he didn't want to do anything that might push her away.

Shepard did not realize this, nor did she realize that her current perception of personal space was wildly different from what she would normally require.

By the time the nursemaid admitted to being forty-seven years old, Shepard unthinkingly let her head drop against Alenko's shoulder.

By the time the bevy of girls started singing their 'patter' song, Alenko freed his arm and wrapped it securely around Shepard's shoulders.

She, obligingly, scooted a little closer, cuddling up comfortably against him.


	389. Forgive

Kolyat Krios looked around the mess hall of the _SSV_ _Normandy_ , currently full of soldiers, Shepard's team (why he always thought of them as an independent entity from the rest of the crew, he wasn't sure), and the Council. He could have done without the Council's inclusion, but understood that it was necessary.

His father saved Councilor Esheel; his intervention at that time ended with Shepard's successful sprint to where the rest of the Council was. Shepard was adamant that the Council owed their lives to Thane. His actions. His sacrifice.

And she said it in a cold, curt tone that showed how much she needed this to be how it was remembered. It was what she needed his father to be remembered for, not for her sake but for his. Well-acquainted with his past (and much more so than Kolyat himself), plenty of people would remember him for the wrongs he'd done, would try to ignore any meritorious service.

His father would have demurred that it wasn't important, that he was at peace and she shouldn't distress herself over something so trivial. Kolyat thought he understood: his father had been forcing his life into a different direction, digging his heels in to not be that person, true and genuine in his efforts not because he was trying to escape repercussions but because it was the right thing to do. A purely personal choice.

And _that_ was why people remembering him for the actions in his last few months mattered to her. Such drastic changes weren't often pursued so thoroughly, undauntedly, tirelessly.

He glanced sidelong at the sea of blue. Most of those assembled hadn't known his father; they stood respectfully towards the back. Those who had—the machine, EDI, Garrus (whom his father had particularly liked), Joker, Dr. Chakwas, two servicemen he didn't know and a civilian with big green eyes—stood close to the front, with the rest of Shepard's ground team. Apparently simply being part of the ground team was a binding tie, even if he knew James, Kaidan and Javik never met him before now, and that Liara was only marginally acquainted with him.

Even in wartime, all the assembled soldiers wore tailored uniforms.

The front of Shepard's glittered with medals and ribbons. His father, on several occasions, noted half to himself that Shepard was a better person than a soldier. It wasn't until Kolyat stood there, regarding her history of service that he understood the full extent of the compliment. She was a very _good_ soldier.

Kolyat almost ignored the Council—also present and very dressed up. He focused rather on the way Shepard's thumbs ran along the sides of the placard in her hands upon which his father's name was written in somewhat shaky lettering.

It was kind of her to offer her ship for the memorial. His father had such fond memories of it, in spite—or perhaps because—of the hardships he found there. He'd had companions, people who either didn't know or chose not to care about his darker past.

' _It's easier to make progress when those around you are willing to let you._ '

"Goodbye, Thane," Shepard whispered before turning and solemnly replacing his father's name on the wall. "If anyone else would like to speak, now's the time." Her voice sounded slightly thick, but she seemed…almost at peace when she turned to join the group.

She'd always known his father was dying. The only surprising thing about his doing so was the manner in which he went. He hoped that, whatever his father's last words for her were, they helped. At the very least, she looked like someone who wasn't well-practiced in letting go.

He listened in silence, his throat obstructed as EDI began to speak. Then Garrus.

"He wasn't an assassin. He was a brother."

Shepard swallowed hard, blinking as fresh color ran into her face. Garrus noticed and Garrus put a reassuring arm around her shoulders. Shepard returned the gesture as best she could.

He listened to Joker, to the ship's doctor, to the green-eyed civilian. Esheel spoke for the Council, which was right and proper.

He listened without listening, eyes fixed on the placard with _Krios, Thane_ on it in Shepard's people's strange lettering. It was a trans-cultural thing for militaries to sort by surname.

Memories of his father were somewhere between bitter and precious. It was strange to find himself in a room full of people who knew him, who remembered only the good man with whom they'd served, of whom a dark past was just that: a dark past. It was something he'd been working to bury. He suspected they'd not only let him do it, but helped where they could. If his father 'looked to the better angels of our nature' as Shepard said, he felt certain those closest to the front had helped by looking for his.

They knew his father in a way he didn't, couldn't. They remembered him as being brave, courteous, loyal. They remembered, admired, his efforts to break with the past and carve a new future. He was a trusted friend. A companion. A brother, like Garrus said.

Kolyat closed both sets of eyelids. He needed to say something. He knew he needed to say something. It seemed unfair that he should lose his father just when he was starting to get over his own anger, resentment. Just when he was starting to forgive.

But that was life. It didn't wait for you to be ready to give up a grievance, even a very real one.

It was this realization that dawned on him which showed him how to break into the silence—a silence tactfully left open for him. The thought before speech was the thing that his father wanted more than anything else, though he'd never actually come out and said it. Kolyat could almost hear the reasoning: it must come in its own time. If his father was anything, it was patient.

… _I forgive you, Dad._


	390. Serenity

Shepard felt like she was falling. No, that wasn't right. It was like the first time she'd jumped out of a shuttle during the parachute training the N-program still gave. Everything _but_ her was moving. The sky above was pulling away. The ground beneath was slowly rising up. But she hung still in the middle of all.

It was a blessing that Aria picked the time she had to take back Omega. Shepard hadn't had time to brood or review her losses. She'd expected to come back to the Citadel, to find things exactly as she left them. She was no stranger to grief; it tended to back off when one had life-endangering tasks to perform, but once those tasks ended, the grief was right there waiting.

This was a new kind of grief in her experience. Although there was a Thane-shaped hole in the galaxy, and although thinking about him—or, rather, the method of his passing, the time with his son he'd lost—hurt, she found that, behind the hurt, was a sort of blank calm.

Not the _bleak_ calm she expected just…an absence of turmoil. She couldn't call it peace, but even she had to admit she wasn't so in love with grief that she wouldn't prefer the absence to the presence. It was an odd sensation; part of her felt this absence said something horrible about her.

Part of her, somehow sounding like Thane himself, admonished her not to be masochistic.

Thane, after all, had been adamant that she shouldn't grieve for him. She shouldn't cling to the pain. She shouldn't carry his corpse as she carried all her 'failures.' And, somehow, maybe because he knew her well enough to know she'd try hard to gratify this last request, or maybe he'd been deviously priming her for the eventuality, she felt strangely empty.

Empty in emptiness. In some ways his death seemed ages ago. In others it was like missing a step on the stairs, like he was just somewhere else in the galaxy until she was forced to remember that he wasn't really.

Maybe it was just that he seemed so…not 'at peace' with the idea of dying, but he'd accepted the eventuality the way he might accept moving to a new home. Everyone died, but nothing about Thane's knowledge that his death would come earlier than that of most had ever seemed morbid. He hadn't resolved to just sit and wait for it; he was engaged and involved…

…until one day, he was called away.

Shepard bit her lip, scooting a bit closer to Garrus. Arms around one another's shoulders, she could feel the vibration of a low-pitched mournful sound rumbling through him. It took effort not to slouch with sudden weariness. Thinking about Thane made her think about Mordin.

Thinking about Mordin made her wonder whether anyone on this deck would see the end of the war. She didn't like to consider it, but found it had to push the morbid speculation aside.

-J-

Garrus was glad of Shepard's nearness. He hadn't been _especially_ close to Thane, but he meant what he'd said: Thane was a brother, and would be sorely missed. He'd wanted to remember aloud shooting pyjaks for points on Tuchanka, discussions of 'my rifle versus your rifle' or mod configurations that had worked in the past.

He'd wanted to. He'd tried. But the words had stuck in his throat.

Garrus glanced at Kolyat, glassy-eyed and looking uncomfortable.

It made him wonder about his and his own father's relationship. It was very much a work in progress before the Reapers arrived. Now, he wasn't sure where his father was, whether he was even alive. Part of him wondered if things were about as 'fixed' between them as they'd ever be. He didn't feel like screaming 'wait! Stop! There's one more thing!' At the same time, he had the uneasy conviction that there might be something left, something lingering that needed to be said or done.

He shook himself mentally, glancing at the Council. Pressed and dressed, looking properly solemn and respectful, they stood out like sore thumbs. It was appropriate for them to be here—even with their escort—but he felt they were intruding. Thane saved their asses—he agreed with Shepard once he heard the events he'd missed—but this was a time for Thane's comrades. People who knew him, or gave a damn because some of Shepard's core crewmen knew him. Crew was crew in Shepard's mind, and it was amazing sometimes how that mindset trickled down.

Chambers, looking odd without her red hair, sniffled. He'd never say so, but Chambers seemed red all over when she cried.

The pain, loss, and old bitterness in Kolyat's voice made Garrus wince. It was sad, in some ways, that the _Normandy's_ crew knew Thane better than his own son. Then again, he didn't blame Thane for being hands-off. He even understood a little: Thane had baggage and Kolyat had dad issues. The two didn't mix well, generally speaking.

They'd mixed up eventually, brought the two together, and that worked out…after a fashion.

Garrus huffed softly, regarding the placard with Thane's name on it. Shepard's alien scrawl wobbled in a way it didn't on Mordin's placard just above. He'd expected Thane's death to hit Shepard much harder than it had. She was upset of course, but he'd seen her grieving before; there was something missing this time, or something ironed out now that usually only got resolved later. Probably because Thane said something and said it often enough for it to sink in.

He was glad. Shepard had trouble letting go, even knowing as she did that losses were inevitable. Even knowing there would be more.

He was going to miss Thane. He knew that Thane believed in an afterlife, as many species did, that was like a place one _went_ when one died.

He rather hoped that some part of Thane would stick around here, joining the spirit of the _Normandy_.


	391. Banter

"Can I just say that this is so classically _you_?" Shepard grinned, climbing out of the car and onto the support structure, high, high above the Presidium. She wasn't sure why it was so breezy up here, but station mechanics had never been something that interested her, unless they weren't working. If she'd paid attention to such things, she might have understood. But she liked the breeze, enjoyed the moving air against her face, tugging at her clothes. Wind and rain were two things she'd quickly learned to appreciate, living in space most of the year. They were the two things she missed most about living planetside…but not enough to give up space travel.

"Well, at least we can say…" Garrus paused, a rifle in one hand. "Well, no, we can't. We can say we got high and that's about it. That joke's been overdone," he mused.

"You were going to make a 'we got high and shot' joke, weren't you?" Shepard's grin broadened as Garrus handed her the rifle, which she checked reflexively, while he produced a half dozen bottles. The bottles told her why they were up here, even if the rifle had been suggestive on its own.

"I was, but since you proved how much it doesn't work, I'll let you deal with being the one to make jokes that don't hold up. And now Shepard, the time has come. We're going to settle this once and for all."

Shepard snorted. Had anyone asked, she would have freely admitted Garrus was the long-distance expert. "Seriously? You want to shoot against me?" she teased.

Garrus grinned. "Just a friendly little competition. I mean, I know you're good, but some of us know how to make a rifle dance."

She'd seen him nail some tricky shots. "A lot of people have seen me shoot, and the Alliance _did_ give me this little medal for marksmanship."

"Yeah," Garrus agreed. "But I've actually seen you dance…" His eyes glittered wickedly. "No comment."

"Well, if you're going to be like that."

"What? A gracious friend?"

"You're going down, Vakarian."

"Don't worry," Garrus declared lightly, picking up one of the bottles before patting her shoulder reassuringly. "I loaded it with practice slugs for when you miss."

"Pride goes before a fall, Garrus, and it's a _long_ way down from here," Shepard responded wryly, shouldering the weapon. Garrus waited as she got the feel for the weapon, for her to give the word that she was ready. "Alright. Pull."

He threw the bottle. Shepard tracked it, then squeezed the trigger.

"An easy one to warm you up," Garrus declared.

"Uh-huh." Shepard handed him the rifle, wondering vaguely about the falling glass before deciding that whatever was below them, it wouldn't be people. Garrus was a bit brash, but he wouldn't shower innocent bystanders with shattered bottles.

"Give me a tough one. Best you've got. Pull."

Shepard took a deep breath, wound up the pitch, and let the bottle fly.

Garrus plugged it with apparent easy. "Come on! I said give me a tough one!"

"It's a step up from being told I throw like a girl," Shepard answered wryly. That, of course, had been trained out of her years ago.

"I was _going_ to say you throw like a marine," Garrus answered lightly…but hinting that perhaps this was only a small step up.

Shepard found herself laughing again. There was something pleasant to be up here, with this delicious breeze, a good friend, and friendly banter. There weren't enough moments like this, which made those that did occur even more precious. "Okay. Be that way." She shouldered the rifle. "Pull."

Garrus pitched a bottle. Shepard sighted it, tracked it…and purposely jerked the trigger.

Garrus let loose a whoop. "I am Garrus Vakarian and _this_ is my favorite spot on the Citadel!"

"Hey, hey, you've gotta make the shot I didn't before you start celebrating," Shepard chided, handing him the rifle and picking up another bottle.

Garrus grinned at her, then shouldered the weapon. "Pull."

Shepard chucked the bottle, which shattered a moment later. "Okay, you win. Garrus Vakarian, honored war hero and king of the bottle shooters. You never know when the forces of glassware will revolt."

Garrus laughed, returning the weapon to the car and bringing out two drinks, each in a cryowrap. He handed her the Astro-Fizz, and sat down, his long legs dangling over the edge of the support upon which they stood.

Shepard joined him, popping her drink and taking a swig. "It is kind of nice up here. Quiet," she mused.

"Yeah."

They lapsed into companionable silence, sipping their drinks and contemplating the Citadel sprawling so far below them.

Something nostalgic crept across Shepard's mind like a haze. "Hey Garrus?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks." It was hard to say it, because her throat tried to lockup on her. It was hard to convey how much it meant that he was here, now, that he'd always been there for her. Even when she'd been a Council political stunt, when she'd been associated with a pro-humanity terrorist organization, right up to now, when she felt like she had half the galaxy wobbling about on her shoulders. He'd never doubted her, never let her down. She'd gone through more heavy crap with Garrus than anyone she'd ever known. It suddenly seemed important to say so, so he understood what she was really thanking him for: for his trust, which had never wavered, even when she had the cockamamie story of being resuscitated from a clinically dead state. "For being there. For _always_ being there."

Garrus flung an arm around Shepard's shoulders. When he spoke, all joking tones were gone from his voice, leaving only gentle certainty. "Don't worry about it, Shepard. I always will be."

Shepard looped her arm—with less success, since her reach was shorter—around his shoulders. "Thanks."

He gave her a squeeze, then went back to silently contemplating the view. His arm, however, stayed where it was, heavy and reassuring.


	392. Poised

Tela Vasir took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was nice, lying here in the shade—though the air was far too wet for her tastes. Still, she'd been in far worse places…swamps, for instance.

Omega.

Bogs.

Illium.

In all those places it didn't matter where one stepped, one inevitably stepped in something nasty, or got something gross all over oneself. She didn't mind things like mud, pond scum, or other natural hazards, but when she said 'gross' it generally had distaste for more than her physical surroundings.

That was why she was a Spectre: she could get rid of some of the galactic muck.

She took a slow breath, let it out with equal speed. She lurked in the shade, waiting with consummate patience…stinging at the enemy's mis-step.

She had to chuckle: _Blasto_ had been a stupid vid, but it was funny for that very reason…well, for the most part. There was that one scene that was rather…disturbing.

A hot, damp breeze turned her armor into a steam cooker. At least she had relatively dry, solid ground beneath her. It was nice to have a steady platform from which to shoot.

What _wasn't_ so nice was the fact that Dalatrass Linron was so…incredibly _stupid_. It would be hilarious in a vid, but in real life it was just…sad. Sadder than sad. She liked the turian expression for this sort of situation, but it didn't make much sense when filtered through a translator—idiom often failed between species. There was a benefit to learning a tongue…and asari had plenty of time to do it.

Her turian teacher had certainly managed to…instill the basics.

The sun made it easy to wander in one's own thoughts. 

One would think that someone with such a short lifespan—like a salarian, _especially_ a salarian—would _listen_ when someone with a _longer_ lifespan said 'maybe the krogan are a good idea'. Everyone with a _molecule_ of sense knew that salarians made poor shock troops. Exceedingly poor.

Krogan were the _perfect_ shock troops: they had all those extra organs.

Ah, well, there was just no reasoning with some people…and in time of war sacrifices had to be made.

Vasir had always hated that phrase 'sacrifices must be made': it was usually the people who _didn't_ have to sacrifice (or feel the effects of that sacrifice) who said it. What would they know? And the war wasn't here on Sur'Kesh. It was on Earth. It was on Palavan. It would be on Thessia…beautiful Thessia, which no war had defiled for…forever.

She had not agreed with the asari plans to 'stay out of this conflict', but she'd kept her mouth shut, carrying out her Spectre prerogative of 'do whatever it takes to ensure galactic stability'.

And whatever understanding Shepard and the Shadow Broker had come to, the Broker was now decidedly on her side. She'd been more surprised than anyone could have been to find out that her failure with regards to T'Soni had been overlooked in light of her general usefulness.

She really did wonder what kind of truce had been drawn between T'Soni, Shepard, and the Broker. Maybe it was better not to ask.

So here she was, on another commission from the Broker that Shepard wouldn't like but, in this case, would agree was necessary.

Here was Dalatrass Linron, safe, ignorant…short-lived. About to be shorter lived, as soon as the little toad came into scope. Popular Spectre opinion had the right idea: this weak, panicky, spineless dalatrass was _not_ a wartime leader. Privately, Vasir thought the idiot woman liked these sense of power that came with thinking she had the galaxy by the quad—salarians tended to fall _just_ above humans in the Council ranking, and they knew it.

As much as she wished the Asari Republics had been represented in the cabal making plans for the saving of the galaxy…maybe it was good that they weren't. She knew the representative: the representative would have wanted calm, peace and order. Nothing would have been achieved. Sad, but true. She wasn't so ethnocentric that she couldn't see her own people's failings—but damned if she would let anyone else point them out.

She surfaced from her thoughts again, checked the layout before her. A deep breath held and released brought her thoughts into sharp focus, rather than the hazy discombobulation of noise in the back of her mind. That was the one thing she hated about assassinations: the silence while one waited for the mark to come out and play.

For Spectres, assassinating figures like Linron was usually reserved _only_ for proven charges of treason. However '…sacrifices must be made.' And this time, the sacrifice would truly benefit others. Whoever the successor was, surely they would be a little wiser than Linron.

Besides, Kirrahe was here. She knew he was chafing under the salarian reticence to get properly involved in the war. The War—it deserved capital letters. However, Kirrahe's hands were tied…but he was a good man for cleanup, and he would know, at once, what had happened and why. And he would go along with it, for the sake of the larger galaxy.

The rest of the 'larger galaxy' would blame it on Cerberus as soon as they realized they were looking at a clever assassination. The clipping of a loose end.

The dalatrass' idiocy, criminal idiocy, kept assailing Vasir's thoughts. She'd been irritated with the Council's protracted inaction since she came to the conclusion that Shepard was neither imbalanced nor delusional. She didn't _like_ Shepard, but she respected the other Spectre. She wasn't one to get hung up on personal feelings and miss important things.

Her thoughts cleared totally as the dalatrass appeared, followed by the ubiquitous aide. Vasir took a deep breath, running through her mental regimen, focusing her senses. Always, always, _always_ check the target…make sure one was shooting the correct individual…

It was a matter of galactic stability, Vasir thought as her finger curled around the trigger.

-J-

Author's Note: Lysana was, indeed, Council-sanctioned to perform his assassination. However, this is another instance where two Spectres are on the same job. It's just that Vasir works for the Shadow Broker, and was able to arrange her opportunity first.


	393. Implications

Major Kirrahe waited, postponing his communique until he could ascertain what ship-time the _Normandy_ ran on. This wasn't hard: spacefaring species tended to keep all their ships on a single timeframe. All he'd had to do was consult the extranet and determine ASST (Alliance Standard Spacecraft Time) in relation to Sur'Kesh Prime Meridian.

Thanks to the time check, he would catch Shepard in the middle of her working day, as opposed to the middle of the night. She was a front-liner, of sorts, and front-liners usually needed their sleep. They rarely got their fair share of it, but they did need it.

"Captain Shepard." Kirrahe addressed the hologram of Shepard. She looked alert, well-rested, ready to respond by offering help. That was probably what most people wanted when they called her.

The beginning of the conversation brought to the fore the reason for the communique. Despite being STG (notorious for the things the Salarian Union wanted done quietly or unobtrusively), he did not like the idea of an assassin operating on Sur'Kesh. No one putting a hit out on someone like Dalatrass Linron would choose a salarian to do it. Not that anyone would ever concretely _know._ It did seem as though Linron was one of small portion of the salarian population who was allergic to a certain bug's toxins.

He could think of three entities that might use biodegradable delivery vectors: STG, Council Spectres, and Cerberus.

Well, she had always liked being separate, apart from others, unique.

But Kirrahe felt it was just too opportune for Linron to die just when she'd begun to have her own people looking askance at her. If the STG didn't do it, and it didn't makes sense for Cerberus to do it—although they would be a convenient fall guy if one was needed—then that meant it had been a Spectre. Whether that Spectre was under direct orders or whether they were carrying out their mandate…that was up for debate.

Or would be, had Linron not made herself so unpopular with those tasked to investigate.

Assassination or natural cause, he could not deny that in this case it was an acceptable loss—though that it happened on his watch was regrettable. How to feel about that? Should pride be stung, or was grim acceptance of a wartime necessity suitable?

He had not _expected_ a Spectre to set foot on Sur'Kesh (after all, wartime security measures for the head of the Salarian Union were in place), but now that one seemed to have done so, he was not surprised. At any other time this would be intolerable. He did stop to marvel at the skill it showed. Wartime security for leadership—on any world—was usually exceptional. It took 'more than exceptional' to get through it.

" _Major Kirrahe. To what do I owe this surprise_?"

"Tragedy and problems, I'm afraid. Dalatrass Linron died last night—allergic reaction, I'll spare you the details." She would catch the truth: Shepard was intelligent. Maybe not a salarian, but from what he had heard about her exploits, she had enough of a way with words to catch the oblique communique.

" _I'd say I'm sorry to hear that, but I'd be lying_." Shepard paused for a moment, then continued without false sympathy, almost a request for information rather than an expression of sympathy. One could afford to be sympathetic to the dead: the dead did not get in the way of a war effort. " _I hope she didn't suffer_?"

Not like so many others were. He was certain she was not making a pointed remark, merely expressing a sop of sympathy for someone terminated out of necessity (but with some prejudice, depending on the Spectre). Which one was it? Clearly not Shepard herself. Her direct involvement would be a tactical mistake—no one would be so stupid as to involve Shepard in this death.

And, doubtless, if questions about assassination _did_ come up, some dead body, probably Cerberus for convenience's sake, would be found and blamed. If they protested, who would believe them? "No, the reaction happens very quickly. I was instructed to contact you by Dalatrass Linron's successor, the new representative of the Salarian Union."

Shepard's posture straightened, like a varren catching a scent. " _Really? Please, pass her my congratulations…if it's appropriate._ "

"I will do so. She would have told you herself, of course, but things are very busy. I was asked to tell you that the Salarian First Fleet is _en route_ to the Crucible, right now. They were the closest. I'm certain some of our scientists will also be trickling in—I draw your attention to Kharesh Solus, Mordin Solus' nephew."

Humans were emotional creatures, she would appreciate the knowledge.

" _I'm glad there's a Solus on this project_."

"As am I. If you'll excuse me, Captain, there's a lot to do—we salarians don't take well to social upset."

" _Certainly. We're not good at twiddling our thumbs, either. Thanks, Major, for the update_."

"Of course." Kirrahe severed the connection, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Linron's successor was quite the manager, and the ripples of the unexpected death (if anyone suspected assassination, few were whispering about it) were already smoothing under her steady, capable hands.

He could not help but notice that the new representative for the Salarian Union was much older, steadier, than Linron. She was at a time in her life cycle when grudges ceased to matter so much, when she was writing her legacy for those left to remember it.

For that was what the salarian people were: legacies recorded in history and legacy reckoned through progeny. It would take a salarian to come up with something like the genophage.

He couldn't help but be a little glad that it was over.

He couldn't help but be a little glad that the Salarian Union was now _in_ this war, costly as it would prove. Better to go down fighting _now_. The Reapers would come, regardless. Better in than out.


	394. Untouchable

Councilor Irissa blinked as the hologram of Aria T'Loak appeared before her. "Aria. What a pleasure."

" _Councilor_." Aria frowned at her, taking her in from scalp to hem. The silence as Omega's ruler studied her began to make Irissa uncomfortable and thus begin feeling out of temper. Usually Aria was civil, but this time the asari seemed to be weighing her, judging her against some unknown criteria.

"I do have things on my plate, Aria," Irissa said as neutrally as she could. "If this is just a social call, it's not a very pleasant one."

" _It's not—social or pleasant_. _Your Citadel is too damn squeaky clean._ " So Aria was back on the Citadel? After having retaken Omega? That was…odd. Odd and unsettling, particularly since C-Sec hadn't apprised her of the pirate's return. And C-Sec ought to know, particularly after what had happened with Cerberus. One would think such an incursion would make them more careful, not less.

Aria cocked her head, eyes narrowed. " _If you know something that can help Shepard's war—anything that might be useful—you should cough it up._ "

Irissa arched her eyebrows. Aria was always prickly, always blunt, but she was rarely threatening. Not like this anyway, because Aria was _definitely_ threatening her…and on the Citadel. That, in itself, underscored the threat. "I don't know what you mean."

Aria's grin was like a razorblade, sharp and dangerous. " _Until Thessia's threatened, you don't know what I mean. Don't think I hadn't noticed the Reapers are leaving it alone. It won't last. So do everyone and yourself a big, fat favor and check all your classified data. Just to be sure._ "

Aria didn't really _know_ anything. Irissa was sure of that. The pirate was just poking for reactions and seeing how much throwing her weight around would get her. She hadn't realized Aria and Shepard had grown so close. Aria had certainly never advanced any of Shepard's goals before. Perhaps they'd struck a bargain during that time both she and Shepard had disappeared. "If I think of anything, I'll certainly pass it along."

Aria gave her another long look. " _Don't wait for Thessia to burn before you do._ " With that, Aria severed the call.

Irissa frowned at the empty terminal, replaying the conversation in her mind.

Aria cared little about Thessia or anywhere that wasn't Omega. Therefore this concern came from having had her home pulled out from under her. But Omega wasn't Thessia. The two were in no way comparable.

In fact, Aria cared very little about anyone other than herself. So the fact that she was calling to offer dark and veiled threats was unusual. Shepard must have struck some kind of bargain to get the asari's cooperation. It made sense, even if Shepard's name had never been connected with the liberation of Omega. A disappearing Spectre, a Cerberus-held strongpoint, and now Aria T'Loak speaking on her behalf. It all made sense, although Irissa was surprised to discover Aria making such a concession.

Whatever the bargain was, it didn't matter since it had nothing to do with her. Aria was, in her mind, a foreign dignitary, but foreign dignitaries didn't run roughshod over the Council.

Not that Irissa was any more worried about Aria's threats than those the Council received fairly regularly. She knew what it took to imperil the Council and Aria didn't have those resources.

As far as Thessia being left alone, that was obvious: too much firepower securing the asari homeworld, enough for even the Reapers not to want to tackle it. And by the time they did, the conflict would either be over or would have swung in the Allied Races' favor.

However, it didn't hurt to pass on a couple of things. Shepard had traveled with a Justicar, and that Justicar had spoken both highly of her and for her in case the Council meant to sanction or otherwise punish Shepard for her actions while with Cerberus.

She might be the Asari Councilor, but she still maintained a healthy respect for an asari Justicar. Justicars notoriously didn't care about rank and tended to be harsher on people higher up in the social hierarchy. They rarely exerted themselves in political matters, but that Samara had done so spoke loudly about the kind of woman Shepard was.

Which was one reason not to want her poking around Thessia.

Asari superiority was a carefully guarded secret. The number of people knew anything about that secret was small—she could probably count them on fingers and toes. As it had always been that way, no one had ever questioned it. But she knew why the asari remained the benevolent leaders of this galaxy.

And Shepard had had experience with such things…and traveled with a living Prothean. There was no way either of them could be allowed within several kilometers of that place. Chances were high that either or both of them could harmlessly and easily access the artifact…but knowing of its existence would be catastrophic.

Irissa scowled at the holoterminal, then walked over to her desk and settled into her comfortable chair, producing a datapad and frowning at it. Lessus was a delicate mission, but High Command was petitioning a Spectre to deal with it. The idea of those filthy creatures loose—or what Reaper might do to them—was disturbing in the extreme.

She sighed and began entering data into the datapad. Aria wanted her pet human thrown a bone? Bone thrown. If the commandos failed, Shepard could have it.

There was no way Shepard was getting the Temple of Athame, not when there was nothing to be gained from such an exposure—an exposure that, as this was a time of war, would just add to the chaos. No one needed that. If there was something, the asari would have known about the Reapers long before, by surmise after analysis if nothing else. If there was nothing about Reapers in that artifact, then there couldn't possibly be anything useful pertaining to them.


	395. Connect

"And we picked Alenko up. Hey-hey, the gang's almost all here," Shepard sighed sardonically. Give her Tali back and she would have almost all the members of the original ground crew. She missed Wrex, but he really could do more where he was.

And in the same thought she missed Williams. In the next thought, she wondered about Williams' mother and sisters.

" _Wait, Alenko's with you? Right now_?" Anderson asked, looking surprised.

"Yeah, why?" Shepard frowned.

Anderson did not answer her. He abruptly turned to speak—almost shout—to someone out of capture, " _Jackson! Go get_ _Jia! Hell yes, it's important! Bring her back here!_ _Tell Alenko to get his ass in here. Someone wants a word_ ," Anderson dictated.

"EDI," Shepard relayed. "Tell Alenko to get his ass—oh, shit…" Words piled up like a Citadel traffic accident as a small woman of Eastern origin stepped onto Anderson's side of the QEC. Shepard's mouth fell open as she regarded the soft face. The eyes caught and held her attention. Alenko's eyes.

She was swearing. Swearing like the marine she was in front of Kaidan Alenko's _mother._ "Ah, sorry ma'am…EDI, Major Alenko's needed immediately at the QEC. If he's busy tell him to drop it."

Shepard was aware that Mrs. Alenko was sizing her up. The scrutiny made Shepard uncomfortable, even if practice let her keep it off her face and out of her posture. She had a little time to isolate what bothered her while she and Mrs. Alenko waited for Alenko (Kaidan) to arrive: it was fear. Not fear like the Reapers inspired, or the fear that stabbed her every time one of her comrades went down or every time their comm-links misbehaved.

It was the fear that Alenko's mother would not believe that she, Shepard, was good enough for her son. It was such an alien and stupid thing to be afraid of that Shepard didn't really know what to do with it. It reminded her of how Javik looked when she handed him a translator unit.

"Shepard, what's going on?" Alenko demanded, swinging into the room. Shepard stepped off the QEC pad so he could see 'what.' "Mom…?" He looked and sounded as if he'd just taken a blow to the head.

Shepard walked up to him then squeezed his arm. "Sign off for me."

-J-

Alenko didn't really hear what Shepard said, he merely recorded the fact that she'd spoken.

" _Oh, Kaidan, my Kaidan_ ," Jia Alenko breathed, covering her mouth in both hands.

"Hey, Mom…" She looked thinner than he remembered, her hair grayer. There was a rigidity like defiance in her posture. The blood on her sleeves told him what she did during the day: she either bandaged men up or held their hands as they died. "How-how are you…?" It was a stupid question. She was stuck on _Earth_. So very, very far away.

Jia snorted, shaking her head. " _Better, now that I've seen you. And you?_ "

Alenko did not have to think about it: he was not about to tell her the whole truth. He wasn't going to mention Thane Krios dying on the end of a sword. He wasn't going to tell his mother about whatever the Reapers and Cerberus had come out with in the last few months. He wasn't going to tell him he was watching this war whittle away at the woman he loved until he began to fear that, one day, he might see the light shining right through her. Metaphorically. "You know. Fighting the good fight." He forced a smile.

She didn't believe him. He knew she didn't believe him. But she let him have his secrets.

"Dad?" Alenko knew the answer before his mother answered it.

" _He's missing, Kaidan. We split up at the Orchard. Now, I put our men back together and he…I don't know where he is._ " The look on her face said that her mind screamed her husband was dead while her heart screamed that he couldn't be. It was amazing the cacophony reflected on her face didn't deafen her to everything.

"We're going to stop this," Alenko said feeling the rage rise up in his chest. "We're going to stop it. Just hang in there. We're working on it."

His mother's smile was exhausted, but reassured. This time she believed him. " _Admiral Anderson is an excellent leader. If anyone can hold us together, here, it will be him._ "

Alenko nodded, swallowing hard. He'd run out of things to say, and knew that any more time on the QEC would be purely for the selfish desire to just _look_ at his mother, to assure himself in his own mind that the blood wasn't hers, that she was not hurt.

However, this was time of war, and so many people weren't so lucky. He couldn't just stay on the line because opportunity presented itself.

"Mom, I-I have to go." It killed him to say it. He felt as though, if he let go now, he would never see her again. Never hear from her again.

He almost felt worse, now, than he had before seeing her. The not knowing had been horrible, but he could down it out in work. Now that he knew she was alright, he would be plagued by not knowing if she was still alive and unhurt.

She smiled understandingly, reaching her hand out. He knew the gesture, on her end, had the result of touching his holographic face. The projection was too far back of him to do anything similar. " _I love you, Kaidan._ "

Alenko nodded, relieved that she'd said 'I love you' rather than 'stay safe.' He couldn't make the promise to do so in good conscience. "I love you, Mom. We'll stop this."

Swallowing hard, he cut the transmission, leaning heavily on the railing that separated a speaker from the projection equipment. Squeezing his eyes shut he fought for his breaths to come evenly. His braced elbows began to tremble as his eyes and sinuses began to sting.


	396. Letters

Dear Bakara—

Or should I call you Auntie? That's how female krogan address their female shaman, isn't it? When in Rome (do as the Romans do), right?

I got your message yesterday. It's nice hearing good news coming from Tuchanka. I hope it's the first piece in a long line of good news.

It's been a rough week. Feels like a lot of casualties. A lot got done, but still. Costs were high. I'm glad to be back with my crew. Back home.

I picked up a new crewman…or recovered an old one, depending on how you look at it. That fella that I mentioned? The one that makes things so complicated for so many reasons? He put me on the floor with a biotic pin almost literally three seconds into the match. (I challenged him to a fight. He wins, he stays; I win, he goes.) I had no chance of victory once he pulled out the biotics, and I'm wondering if maybe I should be reading something into that.

Part of me wonders if I should be hoping there's something to read into that. I've enclosed a holo of him for Shar. She was curious, last time I was there. If she asks…well. Good-looking is _very_ subjective among humans. But you can tell her 'yes, he is' because he definitely is from where I'm sitting.

I've been informed by a reliable witness that my pilot pulled this walking complication off to one side and threatened—I kid you not—to 'break my arm at you' if the complication ended up making things painful.

Pretty serious threat, because my pilot needs that arm to do his job. People around here get grumpy when the pilot can't pilot.

Wrex finally made it to the Citadel. We're supposed to have drinks later. He's going to be pissed that the fight of the month happened out here, just when he couldn't get in on it. If he hates playing diplomat, he'll relish the hope that someone else tries something stupid while he's here.

I call it stupid, but it was almost effective. I don't like to think about what might have been. It makes me lose sleep, and I need what I can get.

I'm not much of a letter writer. Too many years with no one to write to.

Sincerely,

Urdnot Shepard

(You have no idea how weird that looks.)

-J-

Dear Shepard,

Either or, is fine. I'm not fussy, and I know familiarity isn't easy for you.

As to your 'complication,' he has kind eyes. But did you expect to win in a fight? If so, then you should probably read something into that. If you expected to lose, did you want to lose? Be honest. It sounds to me now, as it sounded to me on Tuchanka: you're not over this fellow, and whatever fears you hold, they aren't enough to hold you back. So, you must decide for yourself, sooner rather than later, whether the risk is worth the potential pain. Trust me, that sort of decision is better made than left in limbo.

From everything I've heard from you—and I respect that, perhaps, you kept back what was most deeply personal—I would say let him have one more chance. Just one. The circumstances that caused the…rift…between you were exceptional, by your own story, and are unlikely to occur again. But you must do what you feel is best for yourself.

I hope my advice helps. Because of the genophage, krogan are not monogamous, nor have we been able to bond for life within our own kind. Doubtless there are more tangles for those species who do than I can appreciate. But I do concern myself for your happiness, and whatever else you may have come to believe, it does count for something. Perhaps the idea of being happy frightens you. Don't let it.

I shared your holo with Shar. I think she finds humans visually disconcerting, but I also think she's rather interested in your personal life. I'm sure she'll grill you about him the next time you visit—and I'd advise you to do so, if you can. Don't be a stranger. That's no way for family to operate. To be honest, I think she's rather hoping that life-bonds become common among our people before long. Not that I would ever gossip about such a thing.

Ah, yes. Wrex. You should know, in case he doesn't tell you, that he had to stow away to get off-world. And when I say 'stow away' I mean 'slink away cradling achy bits like he'd done something offensive and got his lumps for it.' He's _very_ popular with the ladies just now, and it's good for him. I know you'll understand why. Maybe you'll even get a chuckle out of it. A wonderful cautionary tale to be careful what one wishes for—there's always a cost.

I hope you're smiling now. It's important.

The only way you'll ever get better as a letter writer is if you practice. So feel free to practice with us.

You should also know, some of our older females shipped off to assist the war effort. It might come as a surprise to you, seeing that the genophage has lifted. These I speak of are, as I said, older. Not all of them are outside breeding age, but most have lived too long with the knowledge of being barren to accept the hope promised by the cure. So, rather than stay, tormented by hope but unable to reach for it, they have opted to take action, to pave the way to a better future for those born, but not to them. Mostly in a medic's capacity. Bandages and medigel don't require much more than the ability to read directions and see from where lifeblood gushes. They were headed to aid the turians, last I heard. I don't know what beliefs you hold, but you might remember these women however your customs prescribe.

Bakara


	397. Outing

Shepard couldn't quite believe they let her keep the dress. But it had been there, folded among her things. She remembered Kasumi, who chose it for her, and Miranda, who had patiently redone her makeup—and, what was more, explained what she was doing and why. Part of her worried for both their sakes. She hadn't heard anything from either since last seeing them. She could understand the silence…

…then chided herself for being hypocritical. If she wanted them to let her know, periodically, that they were alive, she ought to let them know periodically. They shouldn't have to catch it on the eighteen hundred news.

She paused, opened a message and froze. Then managed a simple message.

 _A friend says I need to work on writing letters. Hope you're hanging tough._

 _Shepard_

The note looked stiff, strangely empty…but she wasn't much of a correspondent. She plugged in the addresses she had for both women. There was no guarantee that any of those nodes were still open, but the effort made her feel better.

She went back into the bathroom and frowned in the mirror. She hadn't done as good a job on her makeup as Miranda had, but she looked alright.

Of all her companions from the Collector Hunt—barring Tali, because Tali dated back to the original Normandy—Miranda was the one she missed most. It had been…nice…having something like a girl-friend, a human girl-friend. Someone outside the military, but with at least physiology in common.

Of course, Miranda had been very much an acquired taste, but that period of adjustment was dim in Shepard's memory.

Her omnitool twinkled.

 _Heya, Shep. Don't be working too hard. You get bored with Reapers and Cerberus, and I'll make a detour to wherever and come up with something fun. Staying out of mischief is_ _hard_ _work_ _. ;)_

 _~Kasumi_

 _PS: Your friend is right. But you can practice with me, okay? Little baby steps._

 _PPS: I saw that Thane died. They didn't call him that, but I knew it had to be him. I hope you're holding up._

 _PPPS: Now who needs practice writing letters? I'll be on the Citadel shortly. We should go for ramen or something._

Shepard found herself chuckling.

 _Ramen sounds good. Let me know when you're free, and I'll see if I can clear my schedule._

She did seem to have a lot of friends who liked ramen.

As she reached the CIC, her omnitool twinkled again.

 _You forget who I am. You don't have to be free: I'll just filch you for the afternoon._

Shepard didn't wipe the smile off her face before the doors whisked open.

"Yikes."

"Wow."

Shepard's eyes jumped from her omnitool to where Traynor and Alenko both stood. The former looked surprised. The latter…quite appreciative. There was a compliment in Alenko's expression, a silent compliment, but a compliment nonetheless. "Wrex is on the Citadel," Shepard explained. "And this is the only nice dress I've got."

"It suits you," Traynor declared.

Then, as if taking his cue on propriety from Traynor, Alenko nodded. "It really suits you." Shepard saw the wince that crossed his face, as if chiding himself for something sounding better in his head, or for his lack of originality. Then again…they had an audience.

"Well, I'm glad to have your joint stamp of approval," Shepard chuckled.

"I didn't think Wrex was into fancy places," Alenko noted.

"Oh, he's not. But he's playing diplomat, so he'll be making the other diplomats nervous," Shepard chuckled. She wasn't familiar with the Silversun Strip Casino, but a brief search indicated it was a popular after-work hangout for the Citadel's upper crust. Ambassadors, diplomats, millionaires, that sort of crowd.

Kasumi would love it. All that capital just wandering around.

"Wrex is a diplomat?" Alenko grimaced. "How did that happen?"

"With the genophage cured, the krogan don't want to stay on the margins. As Urdnot's clan-chief, he decided he was the best man for the job," Shepard shrugged. "But I think this is really just 'hey old buddy, let's get a drink while we're both here.'" She looked forward to it. Little things like this, or shooting bottles with Garrus, mattered more than ever given the state of the galaxy.

"Until the shooting starts," Alenko declared sagely.

"Ah, but then it's just like old times," Shepard agreed with a grin, hitching the hem of her skirt high enough to give a brief glimpse of the pistol strapped to her ankle. "Don't worry. Wrex knows not to get me into more shit than I can get out of in…ten minutes. There's a war on, after all."

Both Traynor and Alenko grinned.

"Sounds like one of _those_ friends," Traynor chuckled. "The kind you sometimes wonder about. They get you into trouble and _sometimes_ they even get you back out."

"That's Wrex," Alenko said fervently. "But he always had a soft spot for Shepard."

Traynor's chuckle indicated Alenko had just proved he didn't know how soft a spot…and she wasn't going to spill the beans.

"If you'd give him the fight he wants, maybe he'd ease off on you. Speaking of which, I highly recommend it, the next time he starts something," Shepard responded, growing serious. Wrex would, as soon as he realized they were patching up, start pushing Alenko's buttons worse than ever. "Call me if anything comes up. Garrus is in charge while I'm out. If Garrus leaves the ship, tell Vega he's in the hot seat. I trust," she gave Alenko her full attention, "you won't object, Major?"

"He knows the crew better than I do," Alenko answered diplomatically. "And apparently he's one of your works in progress." His tone indicated 'I'm not going to mess with that.'

"Thanks." With that, Shepard strode out of the CIC towards the airlock, pausing only long enough to knock Joker's hat cockeyed when he cheekily whistled at her.

Once off the ship, Shepard took a deep breath. Even with a shield module and her sidearm, she still felt strangely underdressed.


	398. Siblings

"Heya, Wrex," Shepard announced as she slid onto the stool on his left.

She was laughing at him. His own (adopted) flesh and blood was laughing at him. He could tell. There was a snap of amusement in her pale eyes, and something aloof—like she was _pretending_ she didn't know what was amusing her so much—in the way she ordered a glass of juice.

"Hmph. I smell Essence of Dumbass," Wrex grunted.

"Alenko _is_ serving on the _Normandy_ , so I do see him day to day."

"I'm worried about what he does day to day, Shepard."

"Wrex. If you want to prod my personal life, I'm going to start prodding yours. You're sitting a little… _gingerly_ …on that stool, by the way. What's the matter?"

She knew. She already knew, which meant Bakara probably told her. These females and their collusion…

"If you're my sister, why aren't you supporting me?" Wrex grumbled.

Shepard did laugh, a single, sharp bark of laughter. "Oh, Wrex," she patted his shoulder in sympathy—mock-sympathy, he thought grumpily. " _Clearly_ you've never had any experience with sisters. Don't worry," she sipped her juice. "I had an older brother and remember the basics." And then she smiled cheerfully at him.

"I'm glad you find this so amusing."

"What? I'm having a good day. Nothing's exploded or been riddled with slugs, no one's had to go to the medbay or tried to get me killed. It's a _good_ day."

He didn't believe her…though he found himself inclined to smirk wryly at her.

"So, big brother grump-us," Shepard continued, elbowing him gently. "Tell sister Shepard what's eating you."

"Ironic choice of words," Wrex answered.

Shepard didn't give herself away, she simply arched her eyebrows as if she didn't know. "Really?"

He was beginning to regret not simply enjoying his position as a recently-made only child. "It's the _females_ ," he answered in a low tone. "Ever since we cured the genophage, it's been nothing but work!"

"Fellow men of authority with complaints about your management style been riding you?"

"It's not the other clan heads—I can handle those pyjak shit-slingers!" Wrex straightened up, wincing a little. "It's the females!" Suddenly, it hit him full-force, the sheer awfulness of his…situation. All the females he could possibly want, all the offspring he could possibly want, and he wasn't quite…fortified…to meet the demand. "Now that they're fertile again…" he gave a shuddering groan and let himself flop forward on the bar (which gave an ominous sound that surely caused the bartender some distress). "I haven't slept in…I don't know how long."

"Can I…get you two anything…?" the bartender asked uneasily.

"Another round. And ice," Wrex grunted.

"In a plastic baggie," Shepard supplemented. She didn't sound on the brink of laughter anymore, but Wrex knew that was just on the surface. For years he'd teased her, ruffled her feathers, and she—that sneaky little whelp of a salarian—couldn't take a joke! She'd bided her time, waiting for her moment to kick him in the…shins…when he was down!

"I would have thought you'd be _enjoying_ the perks of krogan fertility."

"Enjoying?!" Wrex sat up again, eying Shepard balefully. The snap of humor was still behind her eyes. Damn. He shouldn't have hassled her about the reappearance of Alenko's scent; it was the scent of 'just friends' after all, and Shepard guarded her friendships jealously. "Shepard. They left the female camp! There was a line of them around my dwelling—I shit you not, it stretched as far as _you_ could see! I had to escape through my own bathroom window!" He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her until the sheer weight of his situation settled. "Even then, I was cornered by two _more_ of them on the ride from Tuchanka!"

"And it's just you? They're not spreading the love around?"

Wrex considered this. "…sure. But everyone wants their firstborn in generations to be strong and fit. I'm the leader of Clan Urdnot. We brought about the end of the genophage. And you're…"

"Unavailable," Shepard supplied demurely.

"Exactly. Everyone on Tuchanka wants a piece of me!"

"Bakara's no help?" Again with the so-innocent tone.

"Bakara! Don't talk to me about her! She _encourages_ it. I'm telling you, Shepard…" It cost him something to admit it. "I'm in no shape to fight Reapers."

Shepard sipped her juice slowly. "Sorry, Wrex. But considering all the shit we've been through, I can think of worse positions to be in."

"Ugh. Trust me. I've been in _every_ position since you left."

"Well, you know what they say. Lie back and think of kroganity."

Wrex glowered silently at Shepard, then heaved a sigh when the ice appeared on the table. In a little plastic bag.

"Here are your drinks," the bartender announced. "And your ice."

"Thank you," Shepard declared, sliding the drink and the ice over to Wrex.

Wrex picked the bag of ice up, weighing it in his hand, then glanced at Shepard, who was regarding the wall ahead of her. He glanced at the ice. Then at his black suit. Then cleared his throat, giving Shepard a significant look.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were so shy." With that, Shepard swiveled so he had her back. "How's this?"

Wrex sighed, glanced around, then undid the fastening on his trousers.

"You krogan don't go commando, do you?" Shepard asked innocently. "Could be uncomfortable. You want a wrap for that thing?"

For a moment, he considered upending the bag of ice over her head. But it would be such a waste of ice. And he needed that drink. "I hate you so much right now."

Shepard laughed, a short bubbling-up of mirth. "Aw, you'll love me later."

Bakara had told her about what was going on on Tuchanka. And Shepard, proving beyond doubt that she was female, took her sisters' side. He would find absolutely no sympathy here. None. And it hurt him, oh, yes, it hurt him to know there was no family loyalty.


	399. Razz

Shepard thought she might have already cracked two of her ribs from not laughing. It was good that Wrex had thick skin, she mused as she listened to the sounds of a grown krogan bashfully shoving a bag of ice down his pants. Otherwise, her little revenge for all those times he'd given her garbage wouldn't be nearly so sweet. She wasn't one to drag a thing out to the point of cruelty. But with Wrex, she could drag it out full stretch long before it ever became cruel. Doubtless, he knew exactly why she was so unsympathetic. She didn't fool herself that he was considering 'maybe if I'd been nicer…' because that just wasn't Wrex.

She thought Bakara had the right idea: let Wrex get a taste of what it was to have everyone trying to get their hands on him in hopes of a healthy offspring. It seemed to her a crash-course in what the females had been enduring for centuries, before he went off to talk policy and make decisions about 'what was good for _all_ krogan.' It was a visceral, vital kind of lesson.

Who knew? Maybe after this Wrex would be glad to settle down to one woman, and never stray too far from the stopping power of her austere glare. She had the impression that Bakara and Wrex seemed like two forces that could balance one another, if the situation permitted.

"You can turn around now, you ungrateful little…" Whatever he meant to call her—if he actually called her anything—dwindled into a rumbling grumble that lacked any real bite or animosity.

Shepard swiveled in her stool to regard Wrex, who seemed to sag with relief at the comfort the cold pack for his achy, sore bits provided. "We humans have a saying. It goes roughly like this: sauce for the she-creature is sauce for the he-creature."

Wrex snorted. Then sighed heavily. "Shit. We sure have been through it, haven't we?" he asked, regarding her thoughtfully.

"Still going through it," Shepard agreed wholeheartedly.

"True. Well here's to us!" Wrex lifted his glass towards her. "And to going through it!"

"I'll drink to that," Shepard answered, clinking her glass gently against his and tossing it back. The juice was really much tastier when sipped, she decided. But far be it from her to ruin a toast like that.

Once both empty glasses hit the counter, Wrex grinned at Shepard. " _Korbal_!" Her translator coughed, indicating the failure to translate. "It means 'victory or death.' Roughly."

Shepard felt her amusement start to slink away, the war suddenly seemed closer, as if it—and not hard vacuum—lurked beyond a few scant bulkheads. There was only one way to salvage the situation, and since Wrex was Wrex, and had a thick skin, she sacrificed 'being nice' on the altar of 'don't ruin the atmosphere.' "Oh, but you can't die, Wrex. You're a family man, now. You've got a _big_ family. A really, _really_ _big_ family."

Wrex seemed to deflate, grimacing as one about to throw himself from a high place. "Way to kick a guy in the quads, Shepard."

"I might on a normal day. But today I give consideration for your aches and pains. So just the shins."

"A thought. Right. It's amazing you haven't cracked your face, hiding that grin you think I don't know is there," Wrex grumbled, giving her a baleful look that lacked something intrinsic. Otherwise, she might have taken it seriously.

"I would _never_ laugh at a comrade's pains!" Shepard answered, only barely managing to keep her mirth hidden. "So I would hope you'll remember my delicacy on such matters in future. For instance, when you think my personal life is so very interesting…"

Wrex grunted. What the grunt actually meant was something even Shepard didn't think she could translate with any accuracy. It might be 'I won't give you any more hassle about breeding requests' or it might have been 'I won't give you any more hassle about Alenko' or maybe it was either (or both) with the added stipulation '…to your face.' Or maybe it just meant 'you're okay, Shepard' and the giving of crap back and forth might continue for as long as they were both alive to give and return fire.

She could live with it, if the latter proved to be the case. Shepard smirked into her juice and sipped it again. Yes, she'd take that. And it really was hilarious, in its own way, to see Wrex so worn out and woeful because of it. "Don't take it to heart," she declared, patting his shoulder. "Even organ redundancies have their limits."

Wrex groaned, his head dropping onto the bar again (which caused the bartender to wince). "More ice!" Wrex barked, thumping a fist onto the poor, abused bar surface.

"In a little baggie," Shepard hissed in an undertone.

The bartender looked as if she almost wanted to ask what this extraordinary conversation—which she probably heard half but had none of the history Shepard and Wrex shared—but considering the destination of the ice, she decided discretion was the better part of valor.

Wrex gave Shepard a sidelong, reproachful look. "I really, really hate you."

"It'll pass," Shepard chuckled, turning her stool and freezing as something in a corner blinked out. Shepard blinked twice as if to clear her vision, wondering if she really just saw what she thought she saw…then she got to her feet. In a case like this, it was better to be certain, one way or the other. When she spoke, the mirth was gone. "Hey Wrex, if I wave, cause a distraction."

Wrex sat up, but he didn't ask her for clarification or details. She could sense him peering around the room, looking for whatever had startled her. He wouldn't know it, even if he saw it.

Shepard hurried along the bar to the unobtrusive corner where she had just seen Kasumi Goto, visible for one moment before disappearing again.


	400. Impromptu

Kasumi Goto's stomach clenched when she looked up to see none other than Shepard wearing that splendid black dress—although Keiji's death always seemed very near her, Donovan Hock's memorable party seemed much less so—and chatting up a krogan. She hadn't known Shep could smile like that, the easy, frank smile of someone gently enjoying someone else's well-deserved troubles after the fashion of friends. Enjoying their friend's trouble…but not with any real spite or malice. Just amusement at the galaxy's sense of justice.

She certainly had not expected to run into Shep at the Silversun Casino. Nor had she expected to be spotted, for she recognized the instant, before she engaged her stealth field, that Shep saw her. a quick word to the krogan, and Shep was out of her seat and making a beeline for Kasumi herself.

"Kasumi!" Shepard hissed softly, glancing around, doubtless looking for some kind of ripple or distortion to direct her attention.

For a moment, Kasumi was afraid to move, feeling sure any little sound would reach those keen ears. Then she decided, well, Shep already knew she was there, and Shep had to know she was never anywhere without a good reason.

Good for her, at least.

"So, is that krogan a good friend of yours? He looks like you're his good friend," Kasumi murmured, before touching Shep's shoulder, to give the other woman a point of reference, without revealing herself entirely.

Predictably, Shep didn't let herself get distracted. "What are you doing here?" Shep asked, not accusingly, more as if simply surprised. "I thought we agreed to meet up for ramen…well, later."

See? This was why she and Shep could be friends. Shep knew when to break out the schoolmistress glasses, and when to let her friends be themselves.

"Yes, I was thinking I'd call you up this evening—assuming you're not with someone," Kasumi answered with a chuckle.

"Still. Lurking like this?"

"Oh…I can explain!" Kasumi answered innocently.

"Uh-huh." But Shep's mouth quirked to the side.

"That krogan is watching you _very_ closely. Does it make you nervous?"

"No. If I wave, he's going to start a distraction…" From Shep's expression, she seemed to have an amusing idea of what 'a distraction' might be. Something in line with the galaxy's sense of justice, no doubt.

"He looks like a good one to do it."

"So, why are you lurking?" Shep asked. "Hard up for credits or staying in practice?"

"People who can't get to the Citadel are having a rough time. And this place has more money than it knows what to do with. It could help those refugees survive."

"Playing Robin Hood?"

"It's not like the owner can spend it if the Reapers win." Kasumi shrugged, knowing Shep wouldn't see it. "The docs working on you-know-what didn't have anything for me at the moment, and I didn't want to get bored. Raiding Cerberus bases and infiltrating Reaper-held locations is fun, but I'm still a thief. It's what I do."

"To thine own self be true," Shep sighed, in the manner of someone compromising with her conscience.

"Well, yes. Without it I…" Kasumi regarded Shepard's expression. "You're not going to call security—or that krogan—are you?"

Shepard sighed, patting the hand on her shoulder. "Just let me get Wrex out of here. He'd love a reason to fight security." Then, more to herself than to Kasumi, she added: "Take his mind off his pain."

"You know, there is a _great_ ramen stand not far from here."

-J-

"So, how was work?" Shep asked rising from the bench near the ramen stand Kasumi mentioned.

"Oh, fine," Kasumi beamed. "Where's your krogan friend?"

"I sent him home. Old guy like that doesn't want to sit around listening to young girls talk," Shep chuckled.

"I take it he was one of your crewmates from before?" Kasumi asked, as the two of them each took a stool at the ramen stand. "I've got this." It was the least she could do, considering Shep hadn't canned the operation.

"Yeah."

"I didn't expect to see you on the Silversun Strip," Kasumi observed.

"I didn't expect to be here. But this was where Wrex was drinking. And hoping for trouble, I think. How are you doing?"

Kasumi knew Shep was not asking after her physical wellbeing. "On the whole…reasonably well, thank you. What about you? I'm noticing some hollows in your cheeks that weren't there the last time I saw you."

"I'm fine." The predictable answer made Kasumi sigh, then gently pat Shep's shoulder. Of course, Shep couldn't admit to not being fine, but she was starting to look a little strained. "Put me back in the field and I'll look a lot better."

"Why the long hiatus?"

"Stuff keeps coming up. Little stuff, you know. And I get the feeling some quarters feel safer if I'm on station."

"That must be a nice change," Kasumi said wryly.

"Better than wading through hip-deep molasses. I'm glad you were able to shake free. It's…nice…being able to, you know, hang out." Poor Shep clearly needed more practice, if she found it so hard to admit.

"It is nice, isn't it? Next time, we'll have to do something really fun. But not like your usual definition of fun. Reapers and Cerberus aren't fun for most people."

"What would you call fun?" Shep asked as bowls of ramen appeared before them.

Kasumi considered, then leaned over to whisper, "How about a panty raid on the Council? Then we'll find a nice flagpole or something in a very public place!"

Shep, who had unwisely just tried to swallow a mouthful of ramen, choked, sputtered behind one hand, then managed to swallow the bite. "…I might actually take you up on that…someday."

"They'll never prove it was us," Kasumi grinned reassuringly.

Shep, still watery-eyed but also grinning, held out her right hand.

Kasumi shook it.

With that, both women went quietly back to their noodles, the atmosphere around them one of easy, quiet companionship.


	401. Epitaph

"You look like you had a good time," Liara observed as she sat down catty-corner from Shepard, depositing her datadrive—for want of a better name—on the coffee table.

"I did. It's not often I get to laugh my ass off at Wrex," Shepard answered, grinning ear to ear. She wore a black dress, and her drift reminded Liara of fizzy lemonade, pink and yellow. For the moment, the war was _out there_ , and _around here_ were friends and companions. It was good for her.

"I'd imagine not. How did he take it?"

"He thought his sister ought to have more sympathy." From Shepard's expression, only an only child—or one with only brothers—could have expected something like that. "I'm afraid he found me very _un_ sympathetic."

"It's good for him," Liara responded easily, wondering what could have happened to the crotchety krogan.

"So…what's this?" Shepard indicated the datadrive.

"I've been thinking about our knowledge of the Reapers, and how easily it could all be lost. So, I'm putting a plan in motion. For the future." She was sorry to bring the war into the room. Shepard's aura darkened and grew murky with such rapidity that Liara could have kicked herself for taking away from Shepard's rare moments of contentment. She turned the datadrive on, focusing on it so she didn't have to focus on her own regrets. "It's a record of the galaxy—our galaxy. Information on different cultures, everything we know about the Reapers and their abominations, and, of course, a blueprint of the Crucible."

"Sounds good," Shepard answered seriously, watching the overviews of the various topics flickering in the air. Her tone said she hoped they wouldn't need the record…but it was better to have it and not need it, after all.

"There's one entry I needed your opinion on," Liara said, studying Shepard's pensive profile.

"Which one?"

"Your own." Liara had to chuckle when Shepard winced. "I'm sorry, Shepard, but not including you would mean the whole narrative would make no sense."

Shepard sighed. "You know, in a classroom full of kids who wanted to be famous, I just wanted to stay on the farm."

Liara chuckled again at Shepard's assumption of weary tones. "Oh, Shepard. If you think this is bad, imagine when we win: people will be screaming for your biography, and then for movie rights to it—or a miniseries. There's probably too much to be squeezed into a two-hour film."

Shepard groaned, throwing one arm over her eyes. "I don't want to think about it."

"Little baby steps, Shepard. Little baby steps."

Shepard moved her arm so she could peer at Liara, the smile draining from her face. "Then I'll leave the entry in your hands." She resettled her arm and seemed to drift in the thoughtful silence that followed.

Liara expected as much. Shepard wasn't one to blow her own horn. "Well…" Liara opened the entry interface, then glanced at Shepard again. "I'd say Jalissa Shepard was born on Mindoir, but never let what happened there define her."

Because she hadn't. She'd risen above it, _made_ something of herself. The events might have fueled her forward momentum, but they had always served as something to propel Shepard forward, not something that held her back.

"I'd also say that she was a deadly tactical fighter. Most enemies never saw her coming."

Shepard gave a wry snort, but said nothing.

Liara looked at her own knees. "She was a soldier, and a leader. But more than that, she was a peacemaker. She tried to facilitate understanding and cooperation wherever she could."

Shepard came out from under her arm, looking wistful. "Thanks."

"It's the truth. And I have a feeling that, after the war, we'll need all the peacemakers we can get. And people who know when to stop fighting."

"I haven't thought quite that far ahead," Shepard admitted. "That's a lovely entry, Liara. Thank you."

Liara smiled. Shepard was a dear friend, maybe her dearest friend. She liked to think this datadrive would never be needed. That she hadn't just written the epitaph on Shepard's headstone. "It's been a privilege to know you, Shepard."

"Hey, we're not dead yet," Shepard said, tone sharpening. "And we're not going to die," she added mutinously, getting to her feet. "Not all of us, anyway." Shepard looked at her, then cast around. "Did you hear? Linron's been replaced."

"I heard a rumor the Salarian Union was restructuring its leadership," Liara answered delicately. She ought to know: she'd sent a torpedo of her own at that particular political figure. It was safer, in the long run, for any tracing-back—real, genuine, dedicated tracing back, not the obligatory investigation that had to be performed—to lead straight to the Shadow Broker rather than the Council. The less fuss made, the better. Hence why most of the galaxy thought Linron had simply been retired, and was sulking somewhere off-camera. Well, she had been retired…just in a more permanent fashion than the Salarian Union let on. Liara could see why the previous Shadow Broker maintained Vasir as an asset. "Are you sorry?"

Shepard blinked, coming out of the depths of thought, looking surprised. "Huh? No. I was just thinking it was good that the Salarian Union doesn't let their politicians get as entrenched as other governments do. Imagine if she'd been allowed to rot in place like Udina did."

Liara didn't even consider popping this particular rose-colored bubble. She'd returned Shepard's pink fizzy lemonade drift to its somber grey. She probably ought to have picked another time, but in a setting of 'you never know…' it was better not to wait. "I shudder to think." Liara suddenly chuckled. "Well, I'd better clear out before Alenko comes to pay his evening visit. He really does seem to be trying to make up for lost time."

"He is. Thanks again for that advice."

Liara smiled genuinely. "Not at all. I'm glad it helped." With that, Liara gathered up her datadrive and left.


	402. Call

Shepard answered the call and was surprised to see a rather nervous-looking Kolyat Krios on the other end. "Kolyat?"

" _Captain Shepard?_ " He looked so ill at ease that Shepard wanted to pat his shoulder reassuringly. " _Do you have a minute?"_

"Absolutely."

Some of the tension in the young man's shoulders relaxed, only to be replaced by more tension. " _I was wondering if I could ask you a-a small favor._ " He didn't sound comfortable doing it, but there was a kind of determination beneath the uncertainty. He didn't really need her help…he simply wanted it, for whatever reason.

"Go ahead and ask," she answered, with all the reassurance she could put into her tone and manner.

" _I'm not familiar with your Alliance's enlistment procedures,_ " Kolyat answered slowly. " _And I'm not entirely certain they would take me._ " He gestured to himself, indicating he meant because he was an alien, and militaries tended not to like taking members of other species.

It puzzled her why he wanted to join the human military, rather than sign up with the hanar, but she didn't question his reasons. "I understand…let me check something?"

" _Of course._ " He gave her a half-hearted kind of smile.

Nope. There was nothing in the regs to prevent him from enlisting. And perhaps the 'stick to your own kind' line would relax given the general chaos of the wider galaxy. "Okay. Do you mind if I ask why? If I go with you, people will probably ask me rather than you."

Kolyat sighed, rubbing his hands together. " _I…after the trouble on the Citadel, I don't think I can remain a civilian anymore,_ " he answered slowly, as if he had never considered explaining himself to anyone. " _I want to help. And my father…well. I think he would approve my choice. He held you in very high esteem, as you know._ "

"I understand," Shepard answered. "Okay. Meet me at C-Sec headquarters in an hour. I'll take you down to the local recruiter and we'll talk to him…you're not planning to go Special Forces are you?"

Kolyat chuckled, correctly interpreting 'I can't get you into that.' " _I was rather hoping there would be a need for scouts, reconnaissance personnel. My first foray into that was interesting._ "

Shepard opened another window on her omnitool and wrote herself a note: 'tag Kolyat for recon.' As she punched in the letters, she realized how long it had been since she had been in a position to shunt talent here or there, where they would be useful. Anymore, she tended to hoard talent and specialists like a dragon did treasure.

"Alright. Give me an hour," she ended on a smile. Once Kolyat hung up, Shepard exhaled slowly, pulling up a search to find the nearest Alliance recruitment center. Everyone had recruitment centers on the Citadel these days.

Thane would approve, she thought. Not necessarily of Kolyat joining the Alliance, but of the boy weighing his options and choosing the one that conscience dictated.

It was the least she could do, to make sure he got through the screening process cleanly, see him off to Basic. Let him know she would stand in Thane's place if need be, the person who got the boilerplate letter home, indicating in words worn into the fabric of the military by repeated use over the generations, assuring loved ones that This Recruit was well and doing fine.

The military had, by and large, been good to her. She even found comfort now in belonging to it again…especially now that she didn't feel like taffy in a taffy pull between the Alliance and the Council.

She took down the recruiter's address. Then, on a whim, checked to see if the Alliance had a MEPS center on the Citadel…and was surprised to find they did, down in one of the wards. A little further research indicated it was part of a block of such centers for the differing militaries, allowing Citadel families the option to enlist without having to fly all over the galaxy before finding out whether they were fit for service.

As far as she could tell, Kolyat was. Shepard sighed, and rolled her shoulders. "EDI, I'm unavailable except in an emergency for the next few hours. If anyone asks, I'm helping a fallen teammate's kid." Burns, Esheel, and probably Quentius wouldn't bother her with trivial matters in the face of such an excuse…and Irissa never really bothered her anyway.

"Of course. Should I wish you luck?" EDI asked.

"I think so."

"Good luck, Shepard."

"Thanks, EDI."

It wouldn't hurt to give Kolyat a few tips. Like 'don't let the DIs get to you. You'll get out, but they're still stuck running the meat grinder.' Maybe she shouldn't use the term 'meat grinder.' It sounded way too intimidating when one was nervous.

Shepard grabbed her hat from the corner of her desk where it lay, adjusted her tunic, then put the hat on. She paused in the bathroom to regard herself in the mirror. Alliance officer in good standing. Her sense of comfort at being back in the fold didn't go deep, she discovered. Still, the pale face looked about right above the Alliance blue tunic, sterile except for its bars of rank on the shoulders.

With a grimace, she went back to her desk, fished out the nametag, and put it on. A sterile uniform had been a budding habit before the SR-1 went down; she'd gotten used to it on a Cerberus vessel. But today, she was an Alliance officer doing what she could for a comrade's child.

She pulled out the case with the rest of the normally-necessary tokens for her uniform—including the ribbon indicating herself as a Star of Terra recipient. She didn't wear that particular ribbon often.

She couldn't help thinking, as she exited her office, that this might be the best decision Kolyat ever made. The Citadel was bound to come under attack sooner or later, and moving targets were harder to hit. Surely Thane would approve.


	403. New Recruit

Commander Jim Chase (a volunteer for reactivation, given this current crisis) nearly fell out of his seat when he looked up and saw a salad bar of ribbons—crowned by a Star of Terra—looking back at him. He jumped to his feet to salute, to be met by a wry grin and the most startling eyes he had ever seen in a face. They were neither blue, nor green, but for all their bright color, there were shadows lurking in them.

The salute was returned crisply. "Commander."

"Captain." Shepard always looked taller on the news, he thought blankly. In reality, she was a shade above average, lean in a way video capture never seemed to convey, but with the same sense of presence and reassurance she exuded via mass media. She also seemed much less intimidating. But, to be fair, maybe it wasn't surprising she should seem intimidating when being broadcast across the galaxy: she knew trillions of eyes were watching her every little move. That would probably make anyone uncomfortable, and somewhat defensive.

"This young man would like to enlist." With that, she put her hand on the shoulder of a lad…who wasn't human.

Chase blinked several times as the lad shuffled uneasily. This was a first for him…

"I already checked the regs," Shepard continued, producing a datapad, which she handed over. "If he's fit, it's fine to take him."

The datapad had the appropriate citation, so he could read it for himself. And it was apparently alright to take an alien…it just wasn't the norm.

"Being as we're in a state of war," Chase began, sitting back down, "protocol says to give him a little physical, then send him over for screening." But she probably already knew that.

By now, everyone in the room was staring agog at the notorious Captain Shepard and her rather strange charge. Chase didn't think he'd ever seen a drell in person before. From the looks the kid was getting (when people weren't looking at Shepard), neither had most of the people here.

"Good." She stepped back as Chase produced the necessary paperwork, and began entering Kolyat Krios' answers into the form. It didn't take long. Right now, if a person was able-bodied, there was a place on the lines for him.

"Alright. Head on back, Krios, and they'll get you checked over."

Shepard put a hand on the lad's shoulder, murmuring something in his ear. Some of the lad's apprehension vanished—so it must have been a brief 'what to expect' kind of comment—moments before the lad disappeared into the testing facility beyond.

"Major, do you have a spare datapad?" Shepard asked as soon as the door closed behind her charge.

"Sure." He handed one over.

"Thank you." Shepard waited for the kid, apparently drafting a letter or something in between responding to nervous recruits who sidled up to her to shake her hand and snatch a moment of her time. He distinctly heard her explain several of her ribbons, though she didn't share the stories attached to them. He also distinctly heard her give a recruiter's pitch for one or two of the kids who weren't quite sure this was a wise choice. She gave a good one, focusing on the fact that it wouldn't do for the war to be lost for want of one more pair of hands.

He let himself listen as he took down the next applicant, and the next.

"Commander Chase?"

"Ma'am?" he looked up again, caught those bright eyes.

"Assuming he passes the screening, I'd like you to attach this letter to Kolyat's file." She handed him the datapad, which he took.

"Of course, Captain."

"Thank you." With a smile which seemed much warmer than her on-screen composure, Shepard returned to giving the kids a real live hero to gawp at.

Kolyat Krios returned about an hour later, looking tired, but buoyed up. "I'm in!" he announced to Shepard, as soon as he found her.

"I thought you would be," Shepard smiled. "When you do report in?"

"Tomorrow…zero six hundred," Krios answered, sounding nervous, in spite of his relief at not being deemed 'unsuitable.'

"Alright." With that, Shepard led the lad out, smiling and shaking hands, working the crowd easily and pleasantly.

That was an officer, Chase thought with satisfaction. Not on such a high perch that she didn't have time for recruits and not-yet-recruits. Classy. Come to think of it, he'd never heard Shepard referred to as a classy lady before…but she was.

He couldn't very well call her 'an officer and a gentleman,' after all.

It was some time before he had a moment to transfer the letter Shepard wrote for Krios to the lad's file. What it contained was something of a surprise to him: it was a letter of recommendation for R1, which was entry-level reconnaissance, citing valorous action as a civilian during Cerberus' attempted coup. The second page was a personal recommendation: she had worked with him before, found him to be a capable, clever, cool-headed young man who, if put under the wing of a good officer or NCO, would become a credit to the Systems Alliance. It was a graciously-written document, every word wreathed with concern for the future of the young man to whom it pertained, but also limned with what she felt was best for the Alliance.

An earmark like the one she'd just put on his file almost guaranteed the lad a good posting—and not as frontline fodder—good in that those who could or did cherry-pick their personnel would clamor for him. After all, Shepard's signature was on the bottom of that commendation. Anyone who trusted her judgment would be more than ready to snatch the lad up and do with him as she suggested: give him to a good mentor and let him come into his own.

Private First Class Krios had a very, very good friend, Commander Chase thought blandly, as he reread the contents of the datapad.


	404. Helpful Hints

Kolyat was beginning to feel more than a little nervous. "Thank you for coming with me, Shepard." She'd wanted him to call her Shepard, rather than use her rank…at least, she did while one of them was still a civilian.

"Let me buy you lunch," Shepard said as they reached the CRT car. "And I'll give you a few tips on surviving basic."

Kolyat nodded. He wasn't really hungry, but he could tell she was putting herself out to make sure his transition from civilian to soldier was as smooth as could be hoped for. "Thank you. But if you have other duties, I'll understand."

"I cleared my schedule for you," Shepard answered kindly, as she settled into the CRT vehicle. "I meant it when I said I'd do what I could for you. For your own sake, as well as Thane's."

Kolyat nodded. It was still hard to think about his father. Or, more accurately, to think of all that had been lost because the future in which those things might have happened had been cut short so viciously.

They remained in silence until they reached the restaurant she picked out—hamburgers and things—and were installed at a table.

"The first thing you've got to remember, is that they _will_ find fault with you. You stand out."

Kolyat nodded.

"And they'll yell all the time. Insult your mother. Probably throw shade on your father. _Don't_ ," and she pointed to drive the point home, "let it get to you. They're going to try _every_ trick in the book to get a rise out of you—and if they figure out what works, it gets worse. Don't give them the satisfaction. Just remember: you'll be out of there in a few weeks, and they'll still be stuck where they are."

"Why?" Kolyat frowned, absently eating a potato stick.

"To toughen you up," Shepard answered, taking a bite of her hamburger. She chewed reflectively, then swallowed. "That's just the way it is. You learn to shrug it off, so when someone you don't know starts on you…you can keep shrugging it off."

It made sense, he supposed, though it wasn't exactly hopeful.

"Keep your head down. Do what you're told. Don't argue. Just get through basic, and it gets better. They've got you break you down before they can do anything with you. Therefore, there's not a lot of room to think. So don't try to overthink if the task doesn't require it."

"What all do they teach you at basic?"

"How to march, how to shoot. Since there's a war on, they tend to stick with practical stuff. Then, once basic is over, they'll give you aptitude tests and figure out where to put you. For instance, it doesn't do for a technical genius to end up digging latrines."

"I'd imagine not." Kolyat shifted in his chair, then began nibbling his own meal. When he glanced up, he found Shepard studying his face, as if she meant to say something, but thought it might be better to let him advance the conversation. "I'm a little nervous," he admitted.

"It'll get better," she answered. "Waiting is hard. But you seem to have hit a lucky chance: I had to wait almost a week between final paperwork and getting into basic."

Kolyat shuddered inwardly at the idea of spending a week in this kind of suspense. "So. Head games?"

"All day, every day," Shepard answered. "I think you'll be okay. You're smart enough to know how to pick your battles. What did you want to do in the military?"

"…I was thinking something like stealth and reconnaissance."

"Then you want the R designation," Shepard answered. "Recon specialist is a good job, if you can get it. But if you want recon, I'll give you another piece of advice: do the job well, not fast. Working too fast, you make dumb mistakes, and a recon specialist can't afford those."

"What were you when you went in?" Kolyat asked. "I know you're Special Forces now…but were you always?"

"I was a regular ground-pounder," Shepard answered frankly. "I went into the N-program after I'd been in for a few years. Got a feel for the military and myself."

Kolyat sensed a deep well behind this statement, and instinctively shied away from it. Wells were always deep, and he didn't want anything deep or heavy just now. "I'm glad you were there to speak for me."

"Commander Chase would have found that there were no regulations to prevent you from entering. In peacetime, you'd have had to be a citizen of a Systems Alliance. In wartime, military service in return for citizenship is a thing. It's an old-fashioned rule, but it's come in handy."

Citizenship meant very little to Kolyat, although his father had tried to impress 'good citizenship' in the short time they'd had together. So it didn't matter to him whether he belonged to the hanar or the human social structure. He was an alien in someone else's culture, either way.

"I hope the Alliance is as good to you as it has been to me," Shepard said, before sipping her tea.

"Why did you decide to be a soldier?"

"My family had all been killed the year before," Shepard answered. "So I was seventeen and alone in the galaxy. I needed something to do, something I could tie myself to. The military gave me structure and stability when those were what I needed. And when I was ready to grow and become something bigger than just myself, they gave me room in which to do it."

So that was why she was so interested in him—quite apart from any promise she might have made his father to keep an eye on him. She saw a little bit of herself in him.

"I appreciate all your help and advice, Shepard." He meant it, perhaps more this time than he had at any time previously.

"I'm glad to give it. I hope it helps."


	405. Under Scrutiny

Administrator Lorik Qui'in was as surprised as anyone by the priority hail from the _SSV Normandy_ —surprised and a little nervous. He remembered vividly the last time Shepard set foot on Noveria—there had been geth, explosions, Rachni (though that was hardly her fault), insane asari and who knew what else.

However, her cleaning regimen—as he always thought of it—had ended up by proving that good deeds were sometimes rewarded. For instance, his reassignment to the position of administrator after Anoleis' very unfortunate exposure.

Shepard had been all over the news, off and on, since the war started. Half of Port Hanshan tuned into the Alliance News Network's _Battlespace_ in hopes of hearing something other than 'death and defeat.' There had been several broadcasts since the pilot piece, in all of which Shepard enjoined the galaxy to stand strong and stand together.

And now she was here. Again. "Captain Shepard. It's a pleasure to see you again." And, if he squinted past the horrific scarring and/or regarded the eyes of the turian next to her, he recognized the youth who had accompanied her last time. There was a subtle change in their dynamic, Qui'in thought as he regarded them. The last time he saw them the lad had been a follower; now, he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Spectre. It was interesting.

" _Pleasure to see you too, Administrator Qui'in._ " The transmission was a bit sketchy but better than most would have managed through the storm currently hammering Port Hanshan. " _This is a courtesy call asking permission to run an operation on your planet._ "

That didn't sound good. "What kind of mission?" he asked cagily.

She arched her eyebrows and the turian—why didn't he remember the lad's name?—crossed his arms.

Spectre business, then. Damn. "As you said, it _is_ a courtesy call."

" _You have a Cerberus presence on Noveria. My orders—Council and Alliance—are to purge them wherever I find them._ " She did not imply it, but Qui'in knew others would: first Saren, now Cerberus—maybe lack of oversight for Noveria wasn't the wisest thing. And, as Administrator, the axe would come down on his neck simply because he was in charge at the time.

"I understand completely. I hope you will remove them with extreme prejudice."

" _Can do. I'll contact you when it's over._ " With that, she severed the link.

Qui'in settled back in his chair, shaking his head slowly. He hoped Shepard would be willing to brief him about who Cerberus has masqueraded as—or whose credentials they had used—and where they'd been located (in case she couldn't find out which company gave those lunatics aid and resources or which company Cerberus maintained as a blind).

"Mr. Keeler, would you please tell Captain Matsuo, I'd like a word?" he asked his secretary over the intercom.

" _Of course, Administrator._ "

Within moments, Capt. Matsuo had arrived. "Yes, Administrator?"

One of the first things he did was to have her do a little housekeeping. The incident with Sterling left him nervous and unsettled. Capt. Matsuo seemed ready to do something drastic to clear her name.

"I want you to silently lock down the port. We have a concern brought by a Spectre—apparently Cerberus is on Noveria and if they have agents here, I would rather they not be able to run away once that Spectre concludes her operation." He suspected Shepard would want to show up in person simply to see who ran and who stayed—or to point the finger at any lingering Cerberus presence.

He wondered if she would line them up and shoot them, as was a Spectre's privilege.

Hell, if she didn't, he just might.

"Cerberus?" She blinked, then nodded deeply in that way peculiar to herself. "I understand. It will be done." She turned and marched off at the briskest pace he'd ever seen. Within minutes a message from her appeared at his terminal indicating the lockdown was complete.

-J-

"I hope you don't mind the in-person visit," Shepard declared as she and the turian entered his office. They looked a bit damp around the edges.

"Not at all. In fact, I expected it, so I had Capt. Matsuo lock down the facility. If anyone tries to leave in reaction—or apparently in reaction—to your presence, she'll scoop them up and put them somewhere safe," Qui'in answered.

"Good. I suggest running some serious background checks in case they're smart enough to stay put. Cerberus likes their sleeper agents," Shepard answered grimly.

"What were they doing here?"

"Fighter base. Nasty little things," Shepard answered. "I'm wondering if it would be too much to ask to allow an Alliance team to remain at the facility. I don't want those things shooting at various allied forces."

Qui'in the Administrator knew he ought to either play for time or say 'no.' An Alliance presence on Noveria? Absolutely not. The investors would riot—and that was the best case scenario.

Qui'in the Turian, given the overall situation, won without a fight. "Of course. All I ask is that they follow the established procedure for all of Noveria's various private interests." This was war. He owed her, in some way, for making his ascent to Administrator possible.

Shepard nodded, relieved he wasn't going to make a fight of this. "I'll put you in contact with Admiral Hackett. You can deal with the top brass rather than the middleman."

That was generous.

"It's a single-use channel. I told him you'd want to talk to him directly. Once you or he hangs up it won't work anymore."

Which means she didn't want it traced or used to trace if someone killed him and went through his conversation logs. "Thank you, Captain. Now, let's see if Capt. Matsuo's net has caught anyone."

"Let's hope so."

Indeed, 'let's hope.' He'd rather they weren't smart enough to simply keep their heads down and wait for an opportune moment; he suspected his nights of uninterrupted sleep were about to take a sharp downturn.


	406. Learn

Alenko's nerves hummed as he stood waiting in the shuttle. Shepard loved her dry runs; the instant she had one, she packed up her ship and off they went. She'd taken a few days to collate the data that had come in during her absence, but he preferred to count them as 'rest days.' She'd come back from Omega looking thoroughly exhausted, like she'd just fought a ground war.

Which, it turned out, she had.

"I remember Noveria," Garrus said, shivering. "Turians do _not_ like the cold, Shepard."

"I'm not too fond of it either," Shepard admitted. "Think of it this way: you can blast them for the discomfort this causes you."

Garrus grinned at this, making a show of checking his rifle.

"And the administration is just letting us run this?" Alenko asked.

"You remember Lorik Qui'in?"

Alenko nodded. The name rang a vague bell.

"He's in charge. A turian administrator who owes me a favor. I'll be calling that in later," she added under her breath.

Turian would make him a decent target; with Cerberus out of sight but in control on Noveria and all its sketchy projects…that could be _bad_. He smirked inwardly at his own oversimplification, then shifted inside his armor and parka. Full cold-weather gear for this mission left him feeling awkward in the unfamiliar garb.

At least they weren't trying to take a Mako up a mountain this time.

"It's good when these things come around," Liara put in.

"Yes it is," Shepard agreed. "Alright, the mission's simple: we come, we destroy, we go home. We're not worried about damages, but _don't_ ramp up the bill," she looked sternly at Garrus and Vega, who both grinned innocently. "The Alliance wants to try to base a unit or two out of this place."

"There's that favor," Garrus chuckled.

"I do not see the purpose of exchanging so many favors, Captain," Javik groused.

Alenko closed his eyes. The Prothean—a real Prothean!—seemed to exist simply to irritate everyone, except possibly Joker, who took full advantage of Shepard's protection to needle the Prothean until the cockpit was a Prothean-free zone.

"We get to blow up Cerberus; we don't need to blow up half of Port Hanshan," Shepard answered coolly.

"Which this crew _has_ done before," Garrus put in quickly.

Alenko found himself grinning at the memory—Garrus hadn't actually been there for that part but he heard all about it and lamented his absence. Cleaning up corrupt security personnel? It would have been a field day for the brash turian.

Those were the old days, though, and Garrus was quieter now. He was more intense, but more cautious. Alenko suspected the scars had something to do with that but he hadn't asked and didn't intend to.

Liara caught his eye and he knew she was thinking the same thing: it was strange to be back here again, him, Garrus, Shepard, and herself.

He wondered if she was thinking about her mother. He hadn't…not until now.

"Okay, biotics at the back. Garrus—"

She and Garrus exchanged one of those looks. She didn't even tell him where she needed him. He simply nodded as if she had beamed the information to him, like telepathy.

Alenko knew it wasn't really, but it seemed that way.

"Vega, EDI up with me." Shepard gave Vega a wolfish grin as she charged her shotgun. "Let's go a make a mess."

" _Now_ you're talking!" Vega responded with true marine enthusiasm.

"ETA, one minute," Cortez announced. "I'll hang around. If I see an opening, I'll see what I can do about those fighters."

"Watch your ass," Shepard nodded.

"Will do."

The shuttle doors opened upon the bright Noveria snow. Shepard was first out as she always was, EDI and Vega came a step behind her (thought Vega quickly made that up to stand at her shoulder, careful not to crowd). Garrus came behind them, Liara, Javik, and Alenko himself out last.

He could see the wisdom of putting both biotics in the back for this mission—he was still an unknown element and she did not want the team put more off-balance than they needed to be. Normally she would have had him and Liara on the flanks. Javik and Liara immediately covered them, leaving him to take up the middle. That was a protective capacity, since a biotic loosing attacks over the heads of his team was considered distracting.

He could do that.

Alenko spent the mission ignoring a persistent state of déjà vu and active observation. The key to integration was knowing how the others worked—it was one reason he was at the back (also to make sure nothing nasty crept up on them).

Shepard was Shepard. She hadn't changed in any way he could appreciate. She relayed new information or, in the case of Garrus, got his attention and either giving some small physical indication—jerk of the chin, a wave of one hand—or just a look.

EDI made him nervous with a sword in one hand and her SMG in the other. She apparently liked things up-close and personal. She was efficient, though. Like a high-speed blender.

Javik might be one of the most unpleasant individuals Alenko ever met, but the man was a powerhouse. Of the team, he was the most silent, simply pummeling his enemies with his biotics—use of which was more intuitive in the Prothean than in anyone else—or shooting them if that didn't work.

Liara was more aggressive than he remembered, heavier-handed with her biotics. Put her opposite Javik and one had sturdy flanks. She usually gave verbal warning, particularly for singularities (for which Vega seemed to have a special liking).

Vega stayed close to Shepard, like a shadow, though Alenko could see the man's inclination was to charge into the fight—not unlike a younger Garrus. He regulated himself, however, to Shepard's pace. Let him off his leash and the enemy would be facing a charging rhino with a shotgun.


	407. Unofficial

"A what?!" Shepard's blood ran cold as ice, a flood of horror riding like vomit during a bad bout of stomach flu.

"An Ardat-Yakshi monastery. They're…" Liara began.

"I know what they are—what I need to know is whether there are…more…like this." Shepard's mind began to race, turning round and round sickeningly. Samara's daughters were Ardat-Yakshi, confined for their own safety, and for the safety of others. They had stayed while Morinth had fled, had chosen isolation and seclusion to becoming a living plague.

"No, no, there's only the one," Liara answered patiently.

"Damn." There _would_ be only the one! "Liara, can you use your contacts to locate someone for me? Two someones, siblings. They should both be there…" Shepard stopped, wondering how to phrase her next request. She had no desire to reveal…

Come to think of it, she didn't know their names or even Samara's surname. That could make finding people difficult.

"I know who you are looking for, Shepard." Shepard's eyes jumped to Liara's face. The asari smiled, then shook her head as though mildly disappointed. "I did a little research into your…cohorts…with the intention that if I found anything of concern, I would alert you to it. I happen to be very good with information."

"Some would say that situation was a concern." Shepard disagreed, but felt herself in unfamiliar, possibly dangerous waters. She respected Samara, had traveled with her, learned from her, even liked her. There was no guarantee Samara would hear about the attack on the monastery. Even if she did, the news might be late in coming.

That meant this was a rescue mission. However, knowing what she did about the hunt for Morinth…would removing the girls from the monastery cause more trouble in the long run? But what other choice was there? Samara was, in Shepard's mind, still part of the crew and that made her family's safety—if Shepard could influence it—a concern.

"Remember, Shepard: I come from a pureblood family, myself. I'll find the girls. I may even have their names lying around somewhere," Liara pointed out. "I'll look into it."

"Be careful, Shepard," Garrus declared, his expression twisted into a frown before he patted her shoulder and followed Liara.

"I don't understand," Alenko broke in, once the others had filtered out of the briefing. "What's an Ardat-Yakshi?"

"They are asari who are genetically…" she did not want to use the term 'flawed.' "Sterile." That was true. However, she gave him a significant look that clearly said 'not in front of the others.' It was easy to forget the small corps of soldiers who oversaw the secure portion of the command deck.

And she knew that the Ardat-Yakshi were something of a dirty little secret as far as the Asari Republics went—something to be swept under the rug and kept under the rug as long as possible.

Alenko followed Shepard down to the lounge.

Shepard considered how to explain it, then began slowly. "Ardat-Yakshi are…their genetics are all messed up. They make very good serial killers, and the killing is…addictive if it's indulged. So they live in seclusion. Like the ladies at this monastery."

Alenko's eyebrows rose. "Why so dangerous? An asari commando, or even one of their lawkeepers…"

"No, they're not super weapons…not like you're thinking. Think _femme fatal_ —they overload your mind when they interface the way asari do. Your brain hemorrhages. It can look like an accident, be written off by the law." Shepard shook her head, Samara's cold description of the method of death causing the skin along her spine to prickle.

"That's experience talking," Alenko noted, frowning.

Shepard resisted the urge to rub her shoulder where the scars from her encounter with Morinth reposed. She also had to push back the memory of drowning in the black of the asari's eyes before her own will and memory came to her rescue. Even a brief memory of the events was enough to make her skin crawl. "I tangled with one. Bait, as it were." Shepard looked mildly embarrassed. "Don't ask—I'm covering for someone who appreciates discretion. If she gives the go-ahead, I'll tell you all about it, otherwise…" Shepard waved indicatively.

"I could _try_ to pry information out of you," Alenko said ruefully, knowing full well that when Shepard chose to clam up about something she tended to stay clammed. His tone said as much.

"You could try," Shepard answered seriously, then blinked before her features softened. "That didn't come out right."

"I dunno. It could have."

Shepard studied Alenko's smirking features, recognized a halting invitation for the conversation to take a lighter turn. "Not saying it mightn't be fun…but let's not and say we did."

"You sure?" Alenko moved so he could stand behind Shepard, wrapping his arms loosely around her shoulders.

Shepard closed her eyes, taking the excuse to be close to him for what it was.

"You're starting to look a little rough, Jalissa," Alenko observed, resting his cheek against her hair.

"I'm starting to feel a little rough," she admitted. She wasn't sure she could have said it to anyone else, not even Garrus.

"Anything I can do?"

Part of Shepard wanted to give in to absolute lunacy, just stop thinking and…

She shook herself mentally. That wasn't her way, to just stop thinking, to just act without thought. It was bad policy at any time but more so now…or so she told herself. "No. But this…" she patted his elbow and sank back against him. "This is nice, though."

Alenko kissed her temple and didn't move to alter their position.

Shepard closed her eyes, aware of how cold against his arm her fingers were. The momentary sensation of peace and comfort was just that—momentary. Within minutes in the quietude, her mind revved back up, revolving around a monastery of women like Morinth…and what the Reapers could do with them.

It wasn't a good scenario, and as she so often felt the _Normandy_ just wasn't fast enough.

-J-

Author's (Preemptive) Note: this story does assume that the "finished" Banshee were periodically removed from the monastery by the Reapers. Although those remaining will be killed when Shepard craters the place, many have already been moved off-world…


	408. Walk Soft

The place was too silent and too still for Shepard's liking. The building seemed to loom above and before them, like a tombstone. A very graceful, aesthetically designed tombstone, but a tombstone nonetheless. Her stomach clenched.

So, this was where the asari kept their dirty little secret: the Ardat-Yakshi. Shepard had wondered, since hearing about Samara's children—all Ardat-Yakshi—where Ardat-Yakshi were kept and how they were kept. Was it like prison? Or was it like any other secluded order—simple but not really a prison?

Morinth obviously thought it was prison, but Morinth was crazy.

If first impressions had accuracy, she would have supposed this was the kind of place one could hide from the outside world as much as be hidden from it. Too bad it was a secret no longer—though the lack of Reapers swarming everywhere worried her. Usually, if Reapers were involved, they were all over the place.

Cerberus was that way, too, but a Cerberus presence made absolutely no sense whatever.

Alenko's voice brought Shepard back to the present. "Hey, this is warm: there's somebody here," Alenko pointed out, having laid a hand on the hood of the vehicle.

It wasn't a troop transport, merely a short- to mid-range shuttle.

Shepard's stomach clenched; she shouldn't be surprised, but she was. She had a fairly shrewd idea to whom the vehicle belonged. There were very few people who were up to storming a Reaper-infested monastery full of Ardat-Yakshi except commandos—and they wouldn't go in alone. Aside from that, commandoes had troop transports—or should. It didn't matter: the vehicle was too small for more than four or five people.

There were even fewer who had reason to turn up, knowing that commandos had been dispatched to…clean up the problem. But Samara was not the sort to let others handle delicate business—especially if she thought it could fall even a little bit within the broad heading of 'Justicar business.'

No, chances were good that she knew to whom the shuttle belonged. Not that Shepard wouldn't be happy to see her it was just…well, Samara's family business was of a very private, personal nature. She'd never told anyone what she and Samara had been up to that time on Omega, not even when Dr. Chawkas demanded an explanation while picking glass out of her shoulders, not even when Garrus had made that angry warbling sound or Thane gave her that solemn look of his—the one that said he was too well bred and too professional to pry…but he really didn't appreciate being out of the loop if his absence mean she came back injured like that.

"Shepard?" Liara prompted gently, a testing quality in her tone.

"Samara, maybe," Shepard agreed, shaking herself out of reverie. "We'll see, though."

"That would make sense," Liara agreed.

"Double check your targets." She didn't need to tell anyone that, but the fact that she did spoke loudly: whoever had the car would shoot back and she did not want them to do so. Which boiled down, at the end of the thought, to not wanting to shoot _at_ the interloper.

"Friends of yours?" Vega asked quietly as Shepard jumped lightly across the empty elevator shaft.

"Possibly," she answered as she moved aside, leaning over to peer into the dark shaft leading down. "Can't say for sure. It's a big galaxy."

"Anything we should know?" Alenko's teasing question fell rather flat as flashlights began switching on.

"Yeah. If it's Samara—the person I think it is—I hope you don't have a guilty conscience." With this somewhat enigmatic statement, Shepard regarded the access shaft. "She's…perceptive and sees things in a very black-and-white fashion."

To say the least.

"Like Garrus?" Alenko asked.

"She makes Garrus look soft and cuddly," Shepard answered with a snort. "Just…you know what? It'll be fine. We're all decent, Reaper-killing sorts."

It was Alenko's turn to snort in amusement.

Samara was smart and with the exception of Liara this was a very non-sketchy group of people. Also, she'd like to think the Justicar trusted her as a judge of core character.

"I'll go first," Liara said without waiting, stepping past Shepard. "If there's anything nasty at the bottom…I'll handle it." With that she put her foot on the first rung, then zipped out of sight in a slide moderated by her biotics.

Shepard felt a twang of envy at her easy descent as Alenko poised to follow Liara, a thin shell of biotic blue delineating his edges.

"It's clear!" Liara called softly. "Come on down!"

Alenko followed immediately, Shepard coming behind him when she heard his soft call that he was clear of the ladder.

It occurred to Shepard that she had grown so accustomed to working with biotics that she did not mind sending them in first in the case of long, dark, vertical tunnels. She would not have countenanced such a thing four years ago: four years ago, she went first; if anyone started shooting, they would start shooting at her.

It was growth and an improvement in tactical matters, some might say…and, she realized, four years ago she wouldn't have let _Liara_ in particular go down first.

Liara and Alenko had the room covered when Shepard arrived. "Clear!" she called before hastily moving out of the way so Vega couldn't land on her. Even the emergency power seemed to be down, Shepard thought, since they were in what looked like a large common area. The air was dark and still, cool and eerie.

"Anyone else see this scene in a horror movie, once?" Vega asked softly, once he reached them and took a moment to look around.

The air was so still, as if the shadows were filled with eyes.

"More than once," Shepard and Liara answered in concert.

It was nothing like the dead Reaper, but it maintained about the same level of unnerving.

"Come on. Let's see if we can find any of the commandoes. Failing that…" She shook her head.


	409. Terror

A shrill scream brought the unit to wakefulness and Brigs, who had the watch, to her feet. Months of hard living showed on every face, in the way they all went for weapons in near-silence. Even the handful of civilians—the youngest no more than thirteen—responded with a learned economy of reaction.

"What is it?" Becker asked in a low tone as he approached Brigs. In the past, she might have flared with nervousness, but despite taut muscles and the stillness of a waiting cat, not a flicker shimmered around her.

"No idea…but I didn't imagine it." Brigs peered into the darkness. "Let's move. I don't like this." It was something new, something different. They'd all learned to deal with husks, Cannibals, and the occasional Brute. They almost always lost people with the latter two, but encounters were getting fewer.

Maybe this new unseen menace was why…

A second scream followed. "I'm going to have a look," Brigs said. "Let's get people moving." At one time, going to have a look would have been a horrible idea; unfortunately, it was necessary.

"I'll go with you," Jonas volunteered, seconded by his younger brother Derrick.

Becker frowned, then nodded. "Don't take too long. All right, strike camp."

Brigs slipped into the darkness, followed by Jonas and Derrick, all of them tense and silent.

They'd gone about two hundred feet, as the crow flies, when they heard the scream again, a harsh, raucous call that seemed to paralyze them for an instant. It was close, and just knowing that made all three want to turn and run.

"I'm going to circle left. Stay together." Brigs synched an inter-omnitool line, her display not flaring in the dark. It had taken days to figure out a mod to make an omnitool 'safe' at night.

She circled slowly, moving carefully so as not to make much noise. The night sounds of the Brazilian wilderness beyond Vila Militar had all gone silent at the first scream.

Brigs froze in place. At first she was not sure she was actually seeing anything. The figure was hazy, moved slowly.

But it was real.

She dropped to one knee, raised her rifle to peer through the scope.

The figure was tall, distinctly feminine, unclothed. But it was dark in the darkness, except for the occasional patch of LED blue. It moved with a sinister grace, the fingers of one long hand waving gently, as if she were trailing them through air instead of water. The other hand had no fingers, or, rather, the fingers seemed to be long, whiplike and flabby. As the figure grew closer, Brigs could make out a biotic sheen hanging softly around the figure, could see the sagging breasts and low-hanging belly. The 'headdress' made it clear that whatever this was, it had probably started out as an asari.

" _Brigs? What is that thing_?" Jonas asked, his voice stark with horror.

"Asari." It was the best she could come up with. Her finger slid onto the trigger as she sighted in. It might be a Reaper, but even Reapers had trouble recovering from headshots. "Hold positions and prepare to fire." Even a Reaper couldn't survive three lines of fire.

"On three, open fire. One."

The asari-thing stopped moving, as if it heard something, or smelled something on the air.

"Two."

It wrapped its arms around itself: Brigs could now see that the ridiculously long fingers of the one hand weren't fingers: more like a glove stretched beyond all proportions, a baglike construct with long, long…tentacles.

Tentacles?

She opened her mouth to say 'three', but the word never got out.

The asari-thing opened her mouth wide, impossibly wide, jaw-snappingly wide and let out an unearthly howl that, up close, seemed to lock every muscle in Brigs' body, reverberated in her head. The scream undulated and continued until suddenly one of the boys screamed back.

A rustling in the undergrowth made it clear that one of them had lost all courage and bolted. Maybe that was the intent of the scream: it paralyzed the stronger foes and set the weaker ones to their heels.

Not that she wanted to think in terms of 'strong' and 'weak', but it seemed a good theory.

The creature turned around, even as Jonas shouted over the radio link for his brother, quite forgetting that if he made noise _loudly_ , more than just those on the comm channel would hear him.

The creature was there, then suddenly not, a burst of biotic power sending her zigzagging through the trees. Brigs got to her feet, following the sounds of Jonas' pursuit.

By the time she caught up with the creature, it had Derrick suspended by the neck, his toes a foot or more from the ground. He dangled helplessly, unresisting, though his chest heaved as he seemed to gaze into the creature's eyes.

Jonas broke out of cover, rifle in hand, just as his brother went rigid, eyes still fixed on the asari-thing's.

It looked like a scene of telepathy from the vids, only modified into a horror movie…

Derrick began to jerk and spasm. Foam bubbled at his mouth, causing his brother to stop. Whatever the asari-thing was doing, the reaction was violent.

Brigs meant to shout, but her teeth stuck together as she watched the asari-thing seem to…to _suck_ Derrick dry. At the least, as his seizure grew less, the blue lights in the Reaper's body began to turn slowly red.

Jonas let off two shots, which the asari batted away, movements perceptibly faster now that she'd done whatever it was. Seeing that his weapon was useless, Jonas turned and ran.

The asari thing let out a screech—but not the paralyzing howl—before she made two biotic charges and then flung out the arm with the funny glove. The tentacles seemed to whip to life, catching Jonas about the throat and one arm, reeling him back in.

Brigs recognized an adaptation to reduce the energy cost of a food item.

-J-

Author's Note: Hanar may not make good husks, but maybe they might work as accessories to another variety? I imagine the Reapers experimented a little here and there; this is one such experiment.


	410. Dread

Liara's guts shifted uneasily as she and the others fanned into the dark room and began to spread out. Ardat-Yakshi were quite the nightmare for asari who knew about them. They were a small portion of the population true, but she didn't like to think what the galaxy's reaction would be if their existence became common knowledge.

"I have found the commandos," EDI announced suddenly, her synthetic tones strangely resonant in the quiet air.

She hurried over and found several twisted bodies lying on the floor, thrown about like scorned toys. Limbs bent at strange angles and blood lay pooled beneath them from punctures that went right through their light armor.

"Ugh…" Garrus grunted, kneeling beside one of the commando and turning her head.

Her expression was one of frozen horror, and her eyes had been burned out. Nothing remained but black pits. Blood seeped out of her audial wells and nose. Bruising showed above her armor's collar, as if something had picked her up by the throat.

"So are we dealing with Reapers or rogue Ardat-Yakshi?" Shepard asked, taking a knee across from Garrus but looking to Liara for clarification.

Liara swallowed and made herself look at the corpse again. "I don't…I honestly couldn't say. It's true that an Ardat-Yakshi overloads her partner when she mates…but the damage doesn't quite look like this—"

A sudden scream ripped through the still air. A high-pitched hard-edged thing that chilled Liara's blood in her veins.

"…sound like Reapers…" Vega said nervously.

"And in an Ardat-Yakshi monastary," Shepard agreed. "EDI, what do you think the probability is that the Reapers are doing something special with the Ardat-Yakshi in particular? Something they can't do with regular asari."

EDI considered. "High. I will not cite the exact statistics. You might find them depressing."

Liara's stomach churned as Shepard got to her feet. Reapers had never gone after specific portions of a population before. Then again, she didn't know of any population within any species that had such unpleasant abilities as Ardat-Yakshi.

"Well, looks like we're razing this place after all," Shepard sighed. "Keep an eye open for survivors. Meanwhile, if the commandos brought explosives, we need to find them."

"Split up?" Garrus asked.

"No," Shepard shook her head. "Ardat-Yakshi and Reapers are two things that should _never_ have come together. In this case, weight of numbers is underrated."

"Anyone want to clarify for the new guy what an Ardat-Yakshi really is?" Vega asked grumpily.

"Seconded," Garrus and Alenko put in.

Shepard looked to Liara, then nodded once.

Why she thought it would be better coming from the team's asari member Liara didn't know. Nevertheless, she answered the question. "It's like I said: Ardat-Yakshi kill those they mate with. The experience is addictive so, naturally, the body count they leave rises over time. And the more they kill the more they need to, so it's an exponential rise," Liara answered. "They're brought and kept here so they won't—or can't—hurt anyone. And, yes, High Command would raze this place to the ground without remorse if they thought even one of these people would escape."

"The one I encountered was an _exceptional_ manipulator. I don't want to cast aspersions on character. Just be aware that they can…influence…people."

Liara felt Shepard's drift cringe and convulse, coloring a strange muddy green-brown. She must have had a close call.

"You've seen one of these things before?" Garrus asked. Then, "That thing with Samara."

"Yeah."

"We should carry on," Liara put in. "We've been standing around too long."

"Seconded," Shepard agreed. "If I was a commando and wanted to level a building, I'd take the explosives to the most central room I could find and just crater the place."

"We are here," EDI announced, projecting a map of the building. "The most central chamber is here. We can reach it by several routes, provided they are not obstructed. This route is the fastest under ideal conditions. This route is slower but requires no elevators."

"Then that's the one we want," Shepard said, tracing the stairs-only route with a finger.

Liara swallowed as she regarded the silent, dark room as Shepard oriented herself, then started off along EDI's suggested route. The darkness played tricks on the ears, and every time they had to work their way around a blind corner she expected something nasty to jump out from around it. Or from behind the furniture. Everything was in chaos: tables and chairs were flung this way and that, ornamental plants lay spilling out of smashed pots.

Blood, little more than dark streaks and puddles, dotted the floor.

"Why aren't we seeing any dead Reapers?" Garrus asked, kneeling by a pool of blood and touching it. It was completely dry, evidencing it was older than the corpses of the commandos.

"Who knows?" Liara answered when several of the team looked to her. "I don't like to think it was because no one could kill whatever was here." Asari were all natural biotics; it worried her that there were no corpses other than the mutilated commandos earlier. Surely some of the Reapers here would have been killed? Weren't there always enemy casualties when this unit waded in? Surely the commandos could have done _some_ damage.

After all, it wasn't like Reapers to clean up their dead. Unless they were smart enough to try making the place look evacuated rather than taken over. But the corpses of the commandos upstairs…

…but she hadn't been sure herself whether she was dealing with Ardat-Yakshi or Reaper-ized versions of them. It was the perfect way to make the place seem empty. And if anyone came further in…

Liara shuddered. Bad enough that the Reapers corrupted whatever species they came across, but corrupting this segment of her own people was nauseating.

Thessia wasn't under immediate threat…but with the idea of the Reapers taking time to discover, find and corrupt the Ardat-Yakshi kept here made her think that Thessia might not be as safe as High Command thought.


	411. Mother

Samara was well aware that she was no longer alone in the monastery except for the Reapers. Reapers didn't stumble in quite the same way as organics, and she'd heard the sound of murmured voices. Thus, she was not surprised when she eventually met up with the unit of commandos—though she'd formed the opinion they were not asari commandos given the presence of voices too low in the register for asari.

"Samara," Shepard breathed, lowering her weapon as she reached the barricade. She looked more relieved than surprised.

Given the presence of the dead commandos nearer the entrance, Samara could not say she was any more surprised to see Shepard here than Shepard was to see her. Their presences made a certain kind of sense, even if neither would have been disappointed not to find the other—it was such an uncertain galaxy just now. Shepard was just the sort of person one should send if a place like this should come under attack—acclimated to battling Reapers, having traveled with a Justicar who had hinted that Shepard had assisted with 'Justicar business,' and a Spectre in good standing.

"Shepard, I almost didn't hear you." And she had Garrus to back her up, which was good. A pair of human males, both of whom looked formidable, an asari who looked young and highly discomforted (as well she might be), and…she wasn't sure about the synthetic, though she was surprised to see one following Shepard. Then again, there had been Legion, but this one looked nothing like a geth design, being quite obviously modeled after a human female…and something she wasn't sure about. Green and four-eyed, it was outside her experiences with foreign races.

One of the males, the taller of the two winced at her comment. Ah, so _he_ was the clumsy one.

"I thought I recognized your shuttle," Shepard declared. "How bad is it?"

"Bad. The corruption runs deep, and your presence is a welcome one," Samara answered.

"Did you see what happened to the commandos by the entrance?"

"I did. It is as I feared—the Reapers have been here. We must not ignore the possibility that modified Ardat-Yakshi have already been moved off-world." She hated the idea but it was better, safer, to assume it had happened than not.

Shepard groaned low in her throat. "Any sign of survivors?"

"Not as yet." Of course that would be Shepard's hope. It was her hope, too. Samara resisted the urge to chew the inside of her lip. There had been no sign of Falere or Rila, except for mentions on datapads and duty rosters. Normally, she would have found the 'Yanis' character who kept cropping up disturbing and possibly requiring action, but these were not normal times.

All that mattered were Falere and Rila. She had sent them here and now they were in danger…if they were even…still asari. The thought chilled her to the very marrow and left her with the bleak feeling of having failed them utterly.

"You know each other?" the male who had winced asked, cocking his head as he studied her.

Samara did not smile, but she would have liked to. She could hear the appended segment of the thought as if he had voiced it 'you have _the_ most interesting friends.' "We do," she answered simply.

It did not seem to reassure him. "So, uh…why are you here?"

That seemed…more protective than one might expect from a mere fellow soldier. "My daughters live here. I have come to find them."

"Then you know where the great hall is?" Shepard asked.

"Of course."

"That's where we think the commandos would have planted their bomb—they were going to raze this place but never got around to it. Obviously," Shepard shrugged.

"It is likely, yes."

"We haven't seen any dead asari except for the commandos. There may still be survivors."

Samara knew why Shepard said it, because it was Shepard's way to hope for the best but prepare for the worst. Especially when the morale of her comrades was involved. "I suspect they will have much to tell us. It has—"

A scream, obviously that of some Reaper creature, sounded deeper within the monastery but too close for comfort.

"I will draw these creatures off," she declared, her biotics flaring powerfully around her. "Make your way to the Great Hall. I shall meet you there."

"You heard the lady," Shepard said and turned to hurry along the walkway.

Samara followed the sound of the Reaper thing. She had yet to see anything indicating what the Reapers were doing with the residents here, but she felt certain it was going to anger her. These asari were here to protect the galaxy from them, yes, but this was also a sanctuary where frightened or narrow-minded people couldn't start witch hunts when they needed a scapegoat.

Samara was old enough to recognize that asari were really no more or less fallible than anyone else. They just had longer to work on it.

Samara stopped as the scream sounded again, this time much closer. Her barrier thickened, power building up in her hand.

The Reaper thing turned the corner, tall and twisted, its shuffling walk suggesting it wasn't used to using its feet.

She sucked breath and released the pulse of energy she'd begun cradling as her mind recorded the contorted asari with her elongated limbs and digits, baggy breasts and sagging stomach, the desiccated features, black eyes filmed over as if by death. She had understood the corpses upstairs; now she understood the party responsible.

Weaponized Ardat-Yakshi.

The thing staggered when the attack impacted, then screamed, crouching low as a biotic corona appeared around it, making it seem like a corpse on fire.

All she could think, as she hastily sailed into the thing, was that she hoped this was not one of her daughters…

…or maybe she should hope it was, so they would not have to exist in such a twisted state of being.


	412. Hell in High Heels

It was a good moment for Javik when he discovered that the asari could produce something other than naïve and excitable children or foolish and useless politicians.

It was obvious from the moment he saw this 'Samara' that _here_ was a warrior down to the bone, a sapient who understood war as only someone steeped in it for centuries could. It was in the way she carried herself, it was in the dignified tone in which she spoke, it was in the way she sized them all up as potential threats before putting the knowledge somewhere in the back of her mind in case it ever came up.

She still had two eyes and was ridiculously blue, but he found himself deciding he would rather not point out either of these facts to her. For that matter, he decided a little effort not to antagonize her would not go amiss should they ever find themselves in close quarters. The woman was dangerous. More than that, he hastily pointed out to himself, she struck him as worthy of respect. Shepard certainly held her in high esteem. He approved of this warrior and wished there were a few hundred more like her. If she was as formidable in practice as she was in presentation—and he had no reason to think she was not—the Reapers would have cause for unease.

What he did not approve of was why she was lurking about here instead of lending her formidable prowess to Shepard's cause. What were the lives of two of the creatures living here compared to the billions or trillions in the wider galaxy?

So apparently asari did not completely grow out of their early life cycle foolishness. Pity.

-J-

Alenko wasn't sure what to think of the asari. She seemed to create a kind of stillness about herself, as if she was moving about underwater. But he could feel the tingle of her biotics even with the distance between them the moment she flared. She was strong, like all asari, but stronger than any asari he'd ever encountered.

He found the way she looked _through_ everyone unnerving and at first had thought she might be one of the Ardat-Yakshi. But from the way Shepard spoke to her, it was clear this was not the case. Shepard definitely had the most interesting companions.

One only needed to take one really good look at Samara to know that this was not a woman who would follow just anyone, even on a critical mission. That she was the kind of woman who would pass on the critical mission if she felt the one leading the effort was…not up to her standards. But there had been a benevolent undertone, almost fondness, when she spoke to Shepard.

And, honestly, anyone who could wear heels like that and still look every inch (plus whatever the heels added) a formidable warrior was definitely someone to keep an eye on. "Is she going to be okay?" he asked Shepard softly.

Shepard grinned up at him. "This is just a warm-up for Samara. She hits like a speeding truck and _never_ gives up. I'm not too worried."

That wasn't an expression Shepard often used: ' _I'm not too worried._ '

"She's the one you were expecting, then?" Vega asked.

"I don't know about _expecting_ , but I'm not surprised she's here," Shepard answered thoughtfully.

"It's good to see she's still alive," Garrus rumbled. "I wasn't sure she hadn't picked a fight with one of those ground ships—like we saw on Tuchanka. Or a platoon of shock troops. I'd say 'or Cerberus' but you know her."

"She'd chew them up and spit them back out," Shepard chuckled.

The brief conversation left Alenko wondering what extent of damage an asari Justicar could cause.

-J-

The asari was hot. Someone that old shouldn't look that good. This was the conclusion Vega came to within moments of having set eyes on the red-clad armored figure of Samara. Her features were more handsome than pretty and not to his usual taste, but there was no denying that like most asari she was good-looking.

But she also looked dangerous as hell. She carried a pistol at her hip and no other weapon but her biotics—and from the way the Major had tensed up when Samara activated them he had the impression hers were formidable even for an asari. The plunging neckline of her armor suggested she wasn't worried about an enemy getting close enough to take advantage of the unprotected flesh. And she was wearing heels, so she obviously had no concern about tripping, mis-stepping or losing her footing.

And if you listened to Shepard, even in the brief commentary she had about Samara, the woman was just as comfortable breaking a guy in two as assaulting a Collector Base or wiping out units of Cerberus wholesale. Like a force of nature rather than a person. And she'd been described as making Garrus' ideas of 'right and wrong' look 'cuddly.'

That would be an uncomfortable thing, since the turian was a man of conviction and didn't allow a lot of wiggle room in his delineations of 'right and wrong.' His skin began to crawl with an unease that had nothing to do with the Reapers.

Vega shook his head and tried to stamp down the unease. It was just having only a snippet-like overview of this woman. Shepard had some very interesting friends and none were ever the kind of person who might turn on her or her crew.

He could only wonder if, years from now, he might be able to look at his own team and think 'wow, what a colorful bunch.'

He thought he might pass on someone analogous to Samara, though. Even when she seemed calm she was pretty intense. And she really did look like she could break a guy in half…and probably not change her expression as she did so. That was just creepy…so maybe she wasn't as hot as he first thought.


	413. Needs of the Few

Brigs felt herself light up like a Christmas tree. Jonas screamed as she caught him in a biotic field and leveled her pistol, sending slugs into the asari's back.

The asari took two steps before turning slowly, grotesquely, raising a barrier to protect itself. It glided forward, the slack in the tentacles wrapped securely around Jonas' neck slowly growing tighter and tighter until Jonas, still clawing at them, began to move too.

Brigs stepped back. Back, and blocked the burst the asari sent at her. The creature hissed then slowly began to wrap the tentacles around her wrist, bringing Jonas closer and closer.

Brigs had to get them off him before he strangled. The fight in him was draining slowly.

There was only one thing to do and Brigs did it: she raised her barrier and charged at a run, drawing her field knife. The asari sent out a pulse that knocked her off balance, but which she took stoically. She caught the thing in a tackle and with her off hand sliced the tentacles choking Jonas. "Run!" she shouted as the asari effortlessly flipped their positions.

She wasn't sure he heard her. She wasn't sure he could run. She couldn't draw back for a punch but remembered how the thing had literally _gazed_ Derrick to death. She shot out one hand, still protected by a biotic cornoa to keep the thing from biting, and shoved her hand into the thing's mouth, twisting its head on its sinewy neck back and away.

A long-fingered hand, big as a dinner plate with spindly, Halloween-witch fingers closed over Brigs' throat and a distorted scream paralyzed all Brig's muscles—and her barrier—as she struggled to cover her ears, her own scream mingling with that of the thing.

The grip on her throat grew tighter, artificial foulness and the natural bad breath of a dead creature filled her nose, making her gasp through the mouth. Or maybe that was because of the weight on her throat.

She opened her eyes as two long fingers slid up her face and caught the soft spot just above her eyes.

She could see black and nothing else. Just black black black black—and there was a sound, like singing but it wasn't really. Maybe it was sweet or maybe it was that awful sound the Reapers sometimes gave off—but it didn't matter, did it…

-J-

"Bitch!" Becker shouted, then charged forward, putting his shotgun in front of the asari and dragging back, forcing its head against his chest as the weapon cut into its throat. "Brigs! Brigs, I could use a hand here!"

The asari screamed, something worse that nails on a chalkboard or the scrape-scrape of a fork on the bottom of a metal pan.

Brigs lay where she was, eyes open, mouth agape, a thousand-yard stare telling him as clearly as the way her biotics popped and fizzled that she might be alive but she was not going to help him with this particular fight. "Dammit Brigs! _Brigs!_ This is no time for a nap! And _you_!" he began to drag the asari slowly, laboriously away from Brigs. He shouted as the asari, realizing—as much as a Reaper could—that inferior position put her at a disadvantage, reached out and drove her long, spindly fingers brutally into Brigs' stomach.

Brigs gasped, blinked, but didn't come to.

"Let her go!" he drove his knee into the thing's back. "Let her _go,_ I said!" He couldn't let go of the shotgun at which the asari's free hand clawed. The thing's feet kept trying to dig in for purchase but Brigs was in the way.

"I've got it!" Jonas screamed, more in terror than in courage. He was back a moment later, despite Becker having told him to stay with the others and find a new spot.

He had nothing more than his combat knife and made good use of it. He locked his elbow with that of the asari while Becker risked a moment's imbalance to throw a leg across the asari's shoulder and take a knee, effectively pinning her shoulder while Jonas sawed away at the limb attaching her to Brigs.

It would have been more expedient to slit the thing's throat, but Becker wasn't sure how effective that would be. Reapers tended to take a lot of work to bring down.

The asari's biotic flares made Becker want to jump, he had to fight the way they pushed at him. The only thing keeping him hanging on as the asari squirmed and struggled was the look of Brigs on the ground with that horrible hand sunk into her.

The hand came off and Jonas sprang forward. His overeager attempts to help sent him, the asari, and Becker into a heap of limbs.

Now it was his turn to have the bad position, with one leg hiked over the asari's shoulder and the ground in the way of his elbows, reducing the effectiveness of the shotgun across the asari's throat. It was decent for restraining the thing if nothing else.

"I've got this!" Jonas shouted from somewhere up-top.

"Good, because it's got me!" Becker gasped.

Suddenly, the asari went limp, fluid the consistency of hydraulic fluid (and smelling far worse) sheeting back onto Becker. The asari was heaved away, leaving the pinned N to scramble to his knees and over to his wounded teammate.

Brig's eyes had closed and she was still breathing, but she was unresponsive.

The hand stuck into her guts seemed more grotesque without with the Reaper attached to it.

"We gonna pull that out?" Jonas asked hesitantly.

"Not right now. It's plugging the wound as good as anything. Let's get her out of here," Becker answered, shouldering Brigs.

Jonas nodded. He didn't ask about Derrick's body. Even the civilians had had to learn the value of a decent funeral. It took not being able to stay long enough to bury the body to make a person appreciate something like that.


	414. Unlooked-For

Falere looked hastily from the Reaper chasing her to the new arrivals—a mixed-species group that wasted no time in taking aim at the thing. A second later all weapons were diverted as a lithe red figure landed squarely between Falere and the Reaper. Anger churned the air as the figure drew back a fist and sent it flying viciously into the Reaper, biotic energy magnifying the blow.

The Reaper actually keeled over onto to the floor, promptly soaking up a dozen or so slugs. Most of the bullets went straight to its head, the commando team rendering it down to something jelly-like.

She didn't know the commandos, but Falare knew the red-clad figure as well as she knew her own reflection. "Mother!" The word tore itself out of her throat. For centuries, she and Rila had referred to their mother by name rather than by title. It made things easier in some ways. Most Justicars did not have Ardat-Yakshi daughters…and daughters who had a Justicar for a mother were eyed askance.

"Thank goodness," one of the humans, the woman with the bright eyes, breathed in relief. Her tone and drift suggested she had been looking for Falere and Rila in particular. Maybe that wasn't inaccurate.

"Falere." Her mother took one of her hands, being uncomfortable with more given the time since they'd last been face to face.

Falere didn't care at this point. She threw her arms around her mother, burying her face in her blue neck. Awkwardly, Samara wrapped her arms around her. She didn't smell like powdery soap and a hint of cosmetics anymore, and soft cotton no longer covered her warm shoulder. But there was still something akin to her own childhood memories of seeking comfort when upset.

Tears stung Falere's eyes as events hurriedly caught up with her. Her throat pulled tight as she stepped back. Her mother let her go, but kept one arm around her, looking concerned.

She knew what the woman was wondering: _where is Rila?_

And she didn't doubt that her mother dreaded the answer.

"Shepard, this is Falere, my youngest," Samara announced.

"It's good to see you're alright. Where's your sister?" the woman with the bright eyes asked.

It surprised Falere that the woman would know about Rila, or seem particularly anxious to find her. Then again, she could tell easily that the concern was less for Rila and herself—understandable, since they'd never met—and more for Samara.

"They-they took Rila into the Great Hall," Falere announced, looking imploringly at her mother.

"This does not bode well," one of Shepard's crewmen—a green thing with a golden drift that was thick and choking in its bitter gold—noted. "I hope we have a plan other than the bomb the asari have brought?"

"Bomb?" Falere asked, looking from the green thing to Shepard, then from Shepard to her mother. Shepard's drift pulsed with irritation, as if her crewman had been too indelicate. "But…didn't you come to help people?"

"We did," Shepard answered. "And we will. But if the Reapers are doing something screwy, we can't leave this place standing."

Falere knew that. "If by 'screwy' you mean _that_ ," she gestured to a nearby corpse, lifting it off the ground so it hung suspended, clearly visible in its grotesqueness. "Then yes, they are."

"Then let's find your sister and anyone else we can. Then we'll blow this place. Samara?"

Samara, her mouth thinning nodded. "Yes. It will be the most we can do."

Falere's skin prickled. There was something almost funereal in her mother's voice and it chilled her blood.

"Falere, can you show us the way to the Great Hall?" Shepard asked.

Falere looked her up and down. The fact was that she had not made great inroads in getting there on her own. But now she had her mother and Shepard, and Shepard's formidable-looking assembly of fighters. She had her biotics only. They had biotics and lots of guns. "Yes." She walked over to the balustrade and, biotics flaring, hopped over it.

A moment later, Shepard and one of her male companions—a brawny-looking fellow whose eyes were kind behind the expanse of his helmet—landed delicately, his biotic corona vanishing once their weight had settled.

The synthetic-looking thing landed lightly, unassisted, and was followed by the asari with the other human soldier. Last came the green thing—and his _biotics_ were _green_!—and a battered-looking turian.

What was it with Shepard's comrades, that so many of them had extraordinary eyes?

"Don't get too far ahead," the biotic with Shepard said, catching Falere's elbow gently. "We've got heavier armor than you do." A reassuringly little smile played about his mouth.

Falere was on the verge of telling him she had several of his lifetimes' worth of practice and that her abilities manifested _naturally_ …but didn't quite have the heart to do it. He radiated nothing but a genuine concern for an unarmed, unprotected civilian. It was not an attitude with which she was familiar. Oh, she could sense the underlying concern about her condition…but it was clear he had little more than an entry on a datapad pertaining to a new subject. "That's very kind of you."

Shepard gave a sound like a sneeze, but since she was near the fore of the group, shoulder to shoulder with Samara, it was impossible to see her expression. Her drift, however, suggested amusement and fondness. It couldn't be clearer that something deep existed between the two soldiers.

Falere bit the inside of her lip, shoving aside the wistful thought that such things were beautiful to see…and something she was never meant to have. "We should hurry." With that she started off, the rest of the group regulating itself by her pace.

Progress towards her destination brought back all her concerns, all her fears. Neither she nor anyone else had any ideas what they would find the Great Hall.

She hoped these commandos had enough bullets. Three asari biotics might not be enough…


	415. Glimpses

Liara didn't know whether she wanted to vomit or scream or both as she looked at the mangled remains of what had once been a Reaper…who had once been asari. It was one thing to face husks, cannibals, and all the rest…but it was different to see what the Reapers could do with her own people.

It was sickening to suddenly discover her species was no longer exempt from joining the Reapers' war effort. It made her blood suddenly run cold. Thessia was still virtually untouched, even if the Reapers were encroaching on asari space. Was that their game, their big plan? To let the Asari Republics think they were safe, only to disillusion them in the most brutal, visceral way possible?

Because where many asari probably saw the Reapers not wanting to tangle with the most advanced species, Liara suddenly saw a ploy. The asari were contributing to the war…but with the attitude of 'we've weathered wars before.' In short, they weren't in it to win it as those species who had already been acted against, who had already seen what the Reapers could and would do to them were.

She bit her lip as she skirted the corpse, half expecting the tortured body to suddenly get up again and attack whoever was nearest.

Everyone else, while unnerved by this new type of Reaper, seemed to be taking it in stride. Even the justicar experienced only a vague ripple of discomfort or disquiet upon seeing the thing. Then again, justicars divided the galaxy into two categories: the just and the unjust. This Reaper, whatever it used to be, served the machines. Therefore, it was part of an injustice. She wondered if the tunnel vision a justicar needed was really so strong, so absolute, that one could look at this asari-Reaper and think 'another unjust person eliminated' and nothing more.

Liara shivered as another scream sounded from deeper within the monastery. It didn't sound like a Reaper, but like an asari…frustrated and in pain. Angry.

"Rila…" Falere breathed, stopping in her tracks for a moment before grabbing a handful of her skirt and proceeding forward faster.

"Hey, slow down a little," Shepard commanded, briefly resting a hand on Falere's shoulder. "Don't want to turn a corner and run into something nasty. Don't want to be in the way of our shooting it, either."

Falere nodded once, and slowed her pace marginally.

"You okay?" Garrus rumbled softly.

Liara toyed with saying she was fine…but this was Garrus. An old friend. "How did you feel the first time you saw a Reaperized turian?" she asked, glad her tone sounded neutral.

Garrus snorted. "Pissed off. A little disgusted. 'Poor bastard' then put it out of its misery," he answered succinctly.

Liara wished she felt angry. But there was no anger, just a kind of creeping horror. The silver lining that the ardat-yakshi were a limited population for the Reapers to work with didn't comfort her. The Reapers were simply _starting_ with a limited population. Doubtless they would adapt something for the rest of the asari population.

Williams' voice echoed in Liara's mind, the original context of the conversation gone, but the stray sentiment replaying: ' _See, that's the problem with so many people. They think "oh, it'll_ _never_ _happen to_ _me_ _!"_ _and then it does and they cry about it._ '

Liara shivered, eyeing Shepard's back. High Command—and Liara happened to know High Command only passed it to Shepard because Councilor Irissa recommended Shepard as a backup plan—would want this quiet. The ardat-yakshi didn't exist as far as the rest of the galaxy knew. The Asari Republics had gone to great lengths, upon discovering they weren't alone, to ensuring no one knew about this small portion of the population.

And those who _were_ ardat-yakshi, but didn't kill, were careful not to be identified. There was no way this monastery housed ten or even five percent of the asari population. Five to ten percent of a population was a good place to start counting when it came to genetic deviations, or so she understood.

"What I don't get is why they aren't swarming us yet," Vega said edgily to no one in particular.

"We're coming to them," Samara answered smoothly, with grim undertones. "They don't need to waste the effort."

"…good to know," Vega declared…but his drift suggested more sarcasm than his voice conveyed.

"It's likely we're not dealing with the monastery's full population," Shepard said heavily. "If I was a Reaper—"

"There's a scary thought," Garrus mumbled, just loud enough to be heard, but quietly enough for everyone to ignore.

"—I'd be shipping out my troops as soon as it was worth the resources to do so. I wouldn't leave them idling here for commandos to blow up."

"And here the Reapers think themselves so inscrutable," Samara observed dryly.

There was something odd about the justicar. Something Liara couldn't quite put her finger on, something that had changed during the time the ground team had been in contact with her. The consideration gave Liara something other than the mutilated asari the Reapers were creating.

When had the change come? When they found Falere, or just after.

Oh. Liara bit her lip, wondering how to tip off Shepard so there were no surprises. If personal concerns buffered someone from the horror or something like the Reaperized asari, then no wonder they didn't seem to affect Samara! The monastery was destroyed. At least one ardat-yakshi had survived. And there was a justicar in the picture.

Samara must be feeling caught between a rock and a hard place just now. Falere staying here was out of the question. On the other hand, letting an ardat-yakshi go free was also out of the question—doubtless the Justicar Code wouldn't allow such a thing.

Liara was suddenly, devoutly glad she hadn't been called to follow such a rigid code, herself. The only question was how Samara would choose to appease the code she could not abandon.


	416. Countdown

Samara felt cold, from the tips of her scalp to the soles of her feet. Fortunately, her centuries as a justicar meant long practice in working through situations that troubled her physiology. Mind over matter, and in this case, the mind was the source of the problem. The Reaperized asari were disgusting, disturbing, and unfortunate.

But she had bigger problems. For once, they were personal, which required extra brain power to process.

Firstly, the fear that she might look into one of those warped, mutilated faces with their death-glazed eyes and see something recognizable as once having been Rila. Not that there would be anything left of Rila, if that were the case.

Secondly, being forced to give her unaccounted-for daughter the mercy of a quick death, if she had been taken and changed. Still, as she had accepted, these Reaper creatures were disgusting, disturbing, and unfortunate. To see them with a beloved face would be…she wasn't sure. She could trust her training to carry her through, should this first problem manifest itself.

Thirdly, Falere's fate. Because she could not—not would not, _could not_ —execute one of her children…

…perhaps, if there was no hope, if the Reapers had already claimed one, then yes, she could do it…there was nothing else to be done…

…but not under any other circumstance. She had already done it once. She had no intention of ever doing it again. Never, if she could help it.

' _I am…exactly what you made me,_ _Mother_.' Morinth's words etched in hatred and madness, the blazing fury in her so-familiar features, echoed and gleamed in Samara's mind. Now, as then, the words were like a slap to the face, not the least because Samara could not argue the point.

' _You are an aberration. An abomination._ ' It had been true, too. But she had confessed the rest of the truth to Shepard not long after: her daughters' conditions _were_ her fault. Their isolation, the menace Morinth became when she rejected the safer, gentler path, all of it started with her. She might not have done anything with malice aforethought, but her children turned out to be ardat-yakshi for some reason, and it took two beings to make another. So at least half the problem lay with her.

Death did not frighten Samara. She was too old, had seen too much of it. She knew she could pull the trigger and spatter her own brains as easily as she could shoot any Reaper that appeared before her eyes. Not the least because, in this, the requirements of the Code would not represent actual justice.

There was such a gap, sometimes, between 'law' and 'justice.' To kill an innocent was unjust; Falere was guilty of no crime, had done nothing to defy the Code's requirement that an ardat-yakshi remain within a monastery if she wanted to live.

The Code was absolute. Fortunately, it did allow one out for situations like this. When faced with two unjust options, the justicar could render justice upon herself, remove herself from the equation. This option spared her the unjust either-or; or it made her consider whether the other options presented to her really did represent an injustice in and of themselves.

In this case, it would spare her daughters, who had done what was right, and had their world turned upside down. For them, she could easily pull the trigger. But not until she was sure it was necessary. Not until she was sure they would be safe.

Being willing to die was not necessarily the same thing as being eager. And Samara was old enough to have learned _patience_. It didn't hurt to have things thought through, however.

She could trust Shepard to protect Falere and Rila; Shepard would find a way to keep them within her shadow, encourage them away from Morinth's path, help them exist in a war torn galaxy that would expand suddenly when this facility was destroyed. The simple fact that they chose to be here rather than to escape would mean something to her.

Shepard would understand why she did what she must. She wouldn't like it, but she would understand. Still, Samara did want to _ask_ Shepard to watch over her daughters, to humbly request this one great favor…yes, she could call Shepard a friend.

To humbly request this one great favor, one friend to another.

She would rather have died fighting Reapers, making the galaxy safer, but apparently it was not to be. Still, there were worse deaths. And a bullet was quick.

"Shepard?" Samara asked softly, leaning over so Falere would not hear.

"Yeah?"

"If anything happens to me…"

Shepard knocked their elbows together, since she wisely would not take one hand off her shotgun, a brief tactile reassurance—though her aura fluxed an unpleasant color to match her emotional recoil from the idea of anything happening to one of her crew. "I'll look after them. Don't worry." Shepard shot her a sidelong look, and Samara knew Shepard was wondering what the Justicar's Code said about this kind of situation.

It showed how many shades of grey Shepard saw that she hadn't already guessed how the Code would see the situation. The Code was absolute, after all. But if she didn't see how things must happen just yet, so much the better. Shepard was idealistic and believed in exceptions and extenuating circumstances, lived in a world where she could indulge both if she was willing to take the consequences of doing so. "Thank you. I know it is no small thing."

"It's not a thing yet." Shepard might have tried to smile had the situation been less dire, but Samara hadn't missed the way Shepard's drift fluxed earlier upon hearing the single shriek of frustration that emerged from deeper into the facility. Not a Reaper sound. An asari sound.

Nevertheless, it eased her mind, made the upcoming break with life easier. Shepard was a woman of principle, after all. She would do all she had promised.


	417. Cross the Rubicon

The last thing she remembered was prying the detonator out of the commando's cold, dead fingers. Then she'd staggered towards the bomb, intending to use it, but the strange shadows had descended upon her, robbing her of consciousness, drowning her in the obscene warbling sound of _the others_.

They knew she would come to them eventually. There was no need to watch her, no need to trail her. Not when there were others…or had been at the time…

…the detonator wasn't in her hand anymore…

"…you hear me?"

Rila shuddered, realizing that warm hands were touching her strangely cold skin. Upon opening her eyes she found two faces swimming above her. One was Falere's, and she wasn't sure if that should come as a relief; one the one hand, Falere looked alright. On the other…she might not stay that way.

The other she didn't recognize at all, a human male who looked very concerned.

"Come on, up you get," the human announced, slipping his hands under her arms and lifting her to her feet.

She'd been lying on it. The detonator seemed to shine in her mind as the shadows tried to smother her again. Her thoughts seemed to stutter as her weight settled. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong…and she could hear it in the back of her head again, a strange chorus like…like sounds that made sense underwater but which were played in the open air. But sometimes the notes grew clear, clear enough for her to perceive a kind of song…

"Rila, we're here to save you," Falere breathed, hugging her briefly.

It was too late, and Rila knew it. The blue bloodstains down the front of her robes told anyone with eyes that it was too late for her.

A cloud seemed to pass over her mind, blunting her perceptions. She studied the human, the song in her mind rising and growing clearer. He knew too much…and his drift was warm…warm and vital…and humans were useful…but he knew too much…

She felt herself smile, then watched herself wrap her hands around the man's throat, biotics flaring. One look…one deep look and—

Rila yelped as she struck something, having been repulsed somehow, then hit the ground, bruising her hip as she did so. She only narrowly missed landing on the detonator, which she grabbed and held tightly. The metal cut into her hand, but the pain drove away the shadows and the singing.

"Alenko?" a woman's voice sounded, sharp with concern.

"I'm okay," the male answered. "No, really, I'm fine." He sounded more perplexed than anything, which was a dumb reaction to have.

"Why would she…she's not _like_ that, you have to believe me!" Falere protested loudly. But it was the loudness of someone who already understood the 'why' in her question. Falere was always an expert in denial.

Rila blinked the shadows away, felt the burning pain in her guts increase, the slithering sensation of foreign objects sending out feelers making her nauseous.

It was too late for her. She wasn't safe anymore. She'd known it. It was why she'd come here, left the nest to find the detonator and to use it. To purge the abomination her home had become.

But she'd been too slow. She could hear others, but they were so far away, barely even whispers. They'd been taken off-world. She knew her kind had been held apart for fear they would become monsters, each a plague of her own, spreading death throughout the galaxy.

Now it seemed there were going to be _made_ into plagues whether they wanted to be or not.

"The Reapers have begun to turn her into one of _their_ creatures," a low, sorrowing voice announced.

Rila looked past Falere, past the two humans to see…

"Mother…" she breathed.

"Rila." Samara took a knee beside her, running a soothing hand back from her forehead. The gesture was old, but still familiar.

She looked just as Rila remembered from the last time they saw one another face to face—which had been too long ago. Tall, austere, dedicated. None of that would help now, but Rila comforted herself that at least Falere would have someone to make sure she got out of here. Otherwise she would stay and Rila wasn't sure she could follow her own plan if she knew it would kill her sister.

"You have to go," Rila said, forcing the words out through lips that had begun to feel strangely numb. "You can't stay here…" The fingers that wrapped around her sister's hand showed strange signs of darkening around the nails. How long had she been in here, in that shadowed stupor? "Take the elevator."

"Rila—" Falere already knew. She already understood for tears gathered in her eye and she began to shake her head.

"It's too late for me." She heard it in her head but not with her ears. "They're coming." She swallowed hard as she held up the detonator, the song raced up, threatening to drown her. "Run!" she almost screamed.

The commando took her at her word. "Move!"

Rila watched Samara wrestle briefly with Falere before the burly human she'd nearly hurt simply wrapped himself in blue light and tossed Falere over his shoulder. "I've got her! Go!"

"Rila! Rila, don't!" Falere screamed, reaching back for her with no thought of actually fighting her way loose. Or maybe the field she was wrapped so securely in was more than the distressed Falere could break.

"I love you," Rila breathed before turning to face the direction from which the others would come. They knew she'd sent the commandos away; they knew that she still had a portion of herself that was bigger than their influence.

She didn't know how much time she could buy the commandos to escape in. All she could hope was that it would be enough. She backed away slowly as one of the twisted figures—she thought she recognized Yanis somewhere beneath the warped visage—advanced on her.

-J-

For those who aren't familiar with the phrase "cross the Rubicon" (I had to look it up before writing this), it means, in short, passing a point of no return.


	418. Tension

Alenko grunted as the asari over his shoulder struggled. Clearly, she wasn't thinking straight, otherwise she'd have freed herself.

Shepard reached the elevator first, palming it open so no one behind her had to even break stride. Alenko barely managed not to crash into the back of the elevator. Vega barely avoided crashing into him.

"Falere, stop struggling. There is no room," Samara commanded, tone brusque and impersonal.

It worked. The asari stopped struggling. For a moment, as the elevator raced upwards, there was only panting silence. It began with a shuddering breath, then a squeak, then a wail of grief and something like…defeat.

Gently, Alenko put the girl back down on her feet, but she immediately collapsed onto the floor, drawing up her knees and burning her head in her arms, sobs wracking her slender body. "There-there wasn't even time to say g-goodbye…" she wept, tone slightly accusing.

Shepard looked over at Samara who, although her attention remained fixed on her daughter, seemed to be looking inward. When she finally spoke, the brusque snap of command was gone. "Her will was extraordinary. As was her love for you."

"You think she'd be able to hit that switch?" Vega asked in an undertone, which seemed too loud. Whether he was asking Shepard or Samara specifically, or the crammed space in general, Alenko wasn't sure.

"I believe so," Samara answered before taking a knee before her daughter. "Falere—"

"You've spent centuries out keeping the galaxy safe," Falere said, looking up, her eyes bloodshot. "Or keeping us safe from the galaxy…so where were you when we _needed_ you?"

Samara swallowed, but didn't answer right away. Perhaps she was asking herself the same question.

Falere abruptly shook her head. "I-I'm sorry…I didn't…"

"Yes, you did mean it," Samara said gently. "And I don't blame you."

Falere lurched forward, and only Shepard's bark of 'wait!' kept stressed individuals from misreading the lunge. The girl threw herself at Samara, arms locking around the other woman, her face buried in her mother's neck.

The elevator slowed, and Samara helped Falere to her feet. There was no time to simply hang around. As soon as the elevator doors opened, Samara marched Falere out, the rest of the ground team following. Shepard shut the elevator behind them…and the building rocked, shuddering as the neutron purge went off.

The building remained structurally sound, but anything organic within the blast radius would have been utterly destroyed.

Falere's sobs redoubled as Shepard slowly, very slowly—and Alenko realized she was moving slowly because she did not want to draw attention to her movements—circled towards Samara. It was easy, casual, but he recognized the tension suddenly filling Shepard, the way her attention seemed fixed on Samara as if looking for a cue or hint. It was Shepard ready to leap into action, and he didn't understand why.

Samara didn't seem to notice Shepard's soft-footed skirting towards her. Her whole attention seemed fixed on the daughter sobbing in her arms.

Alenko suspected if Samara had been made of any less sterner stuff, she might have succumbed to tears too. He suspected she would weep the way Shepard did. Not with sobs or loud manifestations of woe. The reservoir of tears within her would simply and silently overflow, tears being the one outward betrayal she could not repress, the one sign of the state of the deep well of sorrow in her soul.

It was awkward, simply standing there—though Liara and Vega were both watching Shepard closely. Shepard caught Liara's eye. The asari indicated Samara with her chin. Shepard waved a hand, discreet signal that she knew and understood what Liara was trying to tell her.

He was missing something…though from Vega's expression, he didn't see any more clearly than Alenko did what had Shepard and Liara so keyed up.

"Shepard, I have completed a scan via the _Normandy_ 's sensors," EDI announced. "The only organics lifeforms currently present are here on this landing pad."

"Good," Shepard nodded, but her voice was low, clearly calculated not to give away that she was still edging towards Samara.

Or was it Samara that worried Liara and Shepard? Was it maybe concern that Falere had…had whatever it was done to her? Apart from the blood all over her habit, Rila hadn't looked particularly damaged. He opened his omnitool and discreetly ran a scan of the girl. It wasn't a great scan, with Samara partly in the way, but there was no sign of anything that shouldn't be there. No strange metals or evidence of implants.

Liara had begun moving as well, had moved so she stood just in front of Vega, as if to prevent him from acquiring a line of fire when the stressful moment came. It had to be something about Samara.

"Falere," Samara got to her feet, pulling the girl with her. Then, she gently put her daughter at arm's length, hands clutching her shoulders. "I love you," she said softly, eyes fixed on Falere's expression of non-comprehension. "I love you so very, very much." She stepped back several paces, which put her closer to Shepard, who suddenly looked shark-like, body coiling discreetly for a spring.

"Mother? I don't…"

Samara took several more steps backwards. "I love you, Falere. And I am so very, very proud of you."

Cold water filled Alenko's guts.

"The Code dictates that an ardat-yakshi cannot exist outside of a monastery. Do you understand?"

The color drained from Falere's face, her posture stiffening.

Alenko raised a hand, ready to wrap the girl in a barrier to protect her from anything the Justicar might do.

"…Mother…" Horror, something teetering on a sense of betrayal colored her face. Then her eyes widened, as if she understood something. Something terrible. "No! _Don't_!"

As Samara raised her pistol—pointing it at herself, not at her daughter—Falere lunged forward, tripping on her skirt.

Fortunately, this was the moment Shepard had been anticipating, and she had no long garments to hamper her efforts.


	419. Courage

Shepard reacted seconds before anyone besides Falere fully understood the situation. It was only because she was familiar—by discussion and through short glimpses—with the strict dictates of a Code that left no room for question, or for extenuating circumstances…

…and with the lengths to which a mother might go to 'save' her children.

Or, in this case, the last child left to her.

Shepard came out of Samara's blind spot, hitting the asari with what should have been a full body tackle. Samara's biotics flared, saving her from the fall, but age and long years of rigid discipline kept her from releasing a biotic pulse that would have sent Shepard flying through the air like a paper plane.

Shepard anticipated this, and it was for that reason she was able to ignore the strange sensation of dark energy flaring around her. She grabbed Samara's wrist, twisting it as she had been taught in basic. Samara's fingers loosened in response to the direction of the twist, allowing Shepard to rip the pistol loose before staggering back.

"Shepard!" Samara turned, biotics flickering, to find Shepard motioning her crew to keep back. Alenko and Liara were both wrapped in thick halos of dark energy, clearly ready to pool strengths to keep the Justicar at bay.

A pretty gesture of solidarity, but probably not enough to stop a concentrated attack.

"We've already lost Mordin! And we've lost Thane!" Shepard threw the revelation like a brick, hoping it would stagger Samara long enough to let common sense return to the room. It was underhanded, but Thane wouldn't want to see Samara go out like this, either. He would forgive the shock tactic. "Don't—" Shepard had to swallow hard, her voice breaking. " _Don't_ make me put your name up on that wall. Not like this." She couldn't bear it.

Samara's eyes blazed, her breath catching in her throat, indignation at the soldier before her momentarily paralyzing action. She had never actually crossed wills with Shepard; found that the experience was disconcerting. "I won't kill my last remaining daughter!" She pointed violently at Falere, who had regained her balance. It would be asking too much of flesh and blood to do it…

Shepard shifted her footing, vivid eyes meeting Samara's with unflinching determination and a will to succeed that could only be born of battling wills with things like Reapers. Like a husk, Shepard would require an enemy to dismantle her before she would give up the fights she picked.

"And _I_ won't make you!" Falere exploded, pushing her way past Shepard's turian and asari cohorts. Silence fell as Shepard, Samara, and Falere stood facing one another, postures tense, readiness to act or react beginning to charge the air.

Shepard discreetly found the block release on Samara's pistol and, when the Justicar turned her full attention to Falere, released the block and discreetly slipped it into a pouch on her web gear. Even if Samara took the weapon back, she only had one bullet, one chance to use it…it increased Shepard's chance of interfering again.

Meanwhile, Falere raised her chin defiantly, for a moment every inch Samara's daughter in a way that Morinth, for all the family resemblance, never seemed. "I will stay here."

It was like watching the words etch themselves in a stone wall for all to see, a standing testament to a love for both the living and the dead.

"This is my home," Falere cast a glance at the building, seeing it as it was and as it had once been. "No matter what's become of it."

"Without a proper monastery—" Samara broke in, trying to sound reasonable when she felt anything but. She had not felt this conflicted in a long, long time.

"I could have left at any time," Falere interrupted, having fully mastered herself after her initial outburst. She folded her hands into the sleeves of her habit regarding her mother steadily. It was, though only Samara knew it, the same way that Samara had delivered the news to her daughters that she would be entering the Order of Justicars and leaving them forever. "I don't need a building to honor my own code."

Shepard motioned her teammates to stand down. The finger was off the proverbial trigger; Falere had the best chance of talking sense into Samara.

"The Reapers may return…"

"And _if_ they do," Falere's eyes hardened, "they will not take me alive." Her tone promised a wall of bodies to be her tomb, bodies which could be tallied and counted, the number written as the epitaph on her headstone to be seen by any who might stumble across this place.

For a moment, Samara seemed to stop breathing, then like an omnitool undergoing a hard restart, she nodded, slowly then with firm acceptance. "Then…the Code will be satisfied. It permits you to stay under these conditions, as you are."

Shepard thinned her lips, turned around to face her cohorts, giving Samara and Falere a modicum of privacy. She was sure an awkward family moment would ensue. As if in response to the deeply personal interaction between the two asari, the ground team moved to huddle together. "Cortez—you're clear to land," Shepard announced quietly. It was something to do, and doubtless Cortez had seen evidences of trouble at the monastery—though he was far too sensible to fly in without orders.

" _Aye-aye, Captain. I'll just follow the smoke_."

"Shepard," Samara's voice cut into further plans for the immediate future. "I should like my pistol back, if you please." It was not really a request, but it indicated a return to normalcy.

Shepard strode over to where the two asari stood, and handed the weapon over, feeling confident that she needn't worry about the one bullet in the chamber. It was a relief to know that she wouldn't have to watch another friend die today.

It was a bigger relief to know that a child would not have to watch her mother commit suicide.


	420. Decisions

Becker flopped Brigs down only once the troupe couldn't go any further.

"Is she okay?" Jonas asked for about the sixtieth time.

"I don't _know_ , Jonas," Becker answered, regarding Brigs.

She was still breathing, which was good, but the breaths were short and rapid. She didn't seem to be awake, but her eyes darted around under her eyelids as if she was dreaming. Her hands were frigid and she shook uncontrollably even now, after what seemed like an eternity of running.

"Come on, Brigs," Becker encouraged, chafing her hands in hopes that, maybe, the warmth would coax her back.

The Reaper hand was still embedded in her guts, carefully sealed around with medigel to stop the bleeding, but they had to get that _out_. What if it could somehow contaminate her? Turn her?

"Medpack. We've got to do something about this… _thing_ ," he declared.

A hiss of relief went through the group. The medkit was produced and Becker took out the sonic device that would break down the hardened medigel. He didn't miss that the medigel supply, in general, was growing alarmingly low. He hesitated, wondering if it was worth it. She looked so broken—

He clamped down on the notion. This was Brigs. If anyone could survive she could…and he didn't like to think how badly morale would suffer, just now, if he were to give up.

The skin around the embedded portions of the hand had turned dark, but the hand itself did not seem to have sprouted and feelers or anchors or anything awful like that. It came out in pieces, so Becker could ensure he got everything. Blood weltered from the wounds, one by one, before each was sealed. It was hard to tell in the unforgiving light of the multiple flashlights illuminating his workspace. Night and the harsh white light drained so much color.

Or maybe the blood really was the wrong color, even given the region expelling it.

He couldn't bear to think about Brigs as a husk.

Finally, though, he'd done all he could do for her.

"Let's get some water into her," Becker said, trying to sound optimistic but all too aware of the blood on his hands and the Reaper appendage lying on the ground not too far away.

A canteen was produced and handed over eagerly.

"Becker?" Jonas asked meekly.

"I don't _know_ , Jonas." Becker wasn't able to keep the irritation out of his voice. Didn't Jonas think he wanted to know the exact same damn thing? Rather than brood on his irritation, he coaxed Brigs' lips open and helped her swallow a trickle of the trepid, filtered but still mud-flavored water.

"What happened, sir?" Jenny asked, swallowing hard as she peered down at Brigs.

"Jonas," Becker answered, indicating the lad should tell it, since he'd been there at the start. Having given Brigs what little she could handle, he rinsed his hands as best he could, then dried them. As much as he wanted to simply sit here and wait for her to come around or to die, he knew he couldn't.

He had to think like a soldier and not a friend. Brigs would agree with him: the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the one, especially in a case like this. He would have said the same thing had their positions been reversed.

The tale of mutated asari who could literally stare someone to death, who were terrifically fast but didn't need to be since they could catch and detain prey, did nothing for morale. Until now, it had been something of a comfort that the Reapers hadn't seemed to find a way to use asari.

But they had. And, from the look of things, had experimented with hanar, too. Jonas didn't recognize that, though, and Becker had no intention of saying anything just yet. "Map," he demanded, forcing himself to step away from Brigs. He knew the general direction they'd been running and from where they'd begun running. Estimating running speed brought them to…

His finger moved across the map, illuminated by a carefully shielded flashlight beam, further blocked from view by the press of bodies around him and Brigs. After a few moments of checking topography on the map versus what he could physically see, he found their approximate location. He wanted to groan, but did not—they had gone in the right direction but had veered off just enough so as to make a significant impact by the time they stopped running. Instead of west and north, they'd come west and south.

Rumors were that Resistance was heaviest in the northern hemisphere, so he'd planned to take his motley group north in the hopes of learning more and, maybe, finding a Resistance cell to link up with.

This came with its own dangers, of course, but the only other alternative was wandering around in circles. Fortunately, months of hard living left his little flock tougher than they had been and ready to stop running and start fighting.

Although, he had to admit, Brigs' condition might soften that resolve. It might be kinder to just snap her neck since they had no medical equipment. If she wasn't going to come out of this…

He glanced back to find that Brigs had been silently loaded into a makeshift stretcher, little more than a blanket with a bearer standing next to each corner, clearly ready to carry her with them until she died or recovered.

He was grateful to them for the show of solidarity. "Alright. We've had a breather. Let's get moving."

Another scream—the same of a kind one couldn't forget—came from the east, but distant enough that he felt confident only bad luck would put them in the thing's path.

"Let's go," he repeated, holding the map out to be claimed by whoever had supplied it. As he checked his compass heading, Becker tried not to think how exhausted he felt, to ignore the weight of doubt beginning to eat at him.


	421. Argue With a Wall

The humidity was murder. As if Reapers, and asari nuns being turned into Reapers, weren't bad enough, Lessus' humidity and temperature had finally peaked, leaving the marines offloading supplies sweating profusely (and cursing under their breaths).

"Okay, so I've got a question," Vega panted, rolling his shoulders as he glanced at Falere and Samara, who stood apart from the offloading efforts. The latter watched with aloof disinterest, while the former seemed quite interested in the non-asari people milling about. "You know I'm not questioning _you,_ just a question in general."

Shepard cracked her neck before answering. "You can't learn if you don't ask. Shoot."

"How does this read on official paperwork?"

"Humanitarian effort," she replied promptly.

"That's it?" Vega blinked. Shepard's orders to offload some of the stockpiled supplies to leave here with Falere—who apparently, and after much drama from Samara, wasn't coming with, which Vega felt was a massive mistake—had raised a few eyebrows, but also raised no questions.

"That's it. Humanitarian effort," Shepard answered, pulling her helmet off and wiping her brow before putting it back on.

"And the Brass is okay with that?"

Shepard chuckled. "I know. When you have to sign for every block of ammo. The thing is, no one wants to be that guy who said 'no' to humanitarian aid, and no politician wants to be the tool who was known to have made a fuss about it. So most of the higher-ups won't question it if humanitarian effort write-offs only happen occasionally. Now, you do it too often and they start auditing to make sure it's going where it should—and that's just good policy."

"Until they start splitting hairs," Vega appended.

"Until they start splitting hairs," Shepard agreed.

Vega agreed with general consensus that, with Burns in the Councilor's seat, Shepard could now get away with murder and talking in the theater if she wanted to. "Are you really okay with leaving her here?" he asked, frowning at the young asari, who seemed to be watching the swarm of marines with great interest.

"Not really. But, as Samara pointed out, this place is no longer tactically significant," Shepard answered softly. "And apparently, this facility was meant to be as self-sufficient as possible."

"But not self-sufficient when staffed by one person."

"I never said it would be easy."

Vega frowned at the back of Shepard's head. "You don't think we could change Samara's mind? I mean, I know she's got this code, but…" he glanced around. "It looks like the situation changed. You know?"

"I know. That's why I'm a soldier and not a Justicar. But if you'd like to argue with her, you're more than welcome." Shepard's tone indicated she had no intention of wasting her breath. The matter was apparently settled and set in stone.

Vega frowned, then strode over to the Justicar. Yeah, sure.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Samara asked serenely, once he closed to conversing distance.

"I'd like you ladies to reconsider Miss Falere staying here," he declared bluntly, vaguely aware that anyone within earshot was suddenly eavesdropping.

"You are entitled to that opinion, of course," Samara answered, still in that tranquil tone, expression completely unruffled.

Damn. He'd expected…more. Derision for presumptuousness at least. An argument at best. Not a response to the underlying sentiment, rather than to his actual statement. How did you argue with a wall? He glanced at Falere, who remained silent and unmoving, her eyes lowered demurely.

"You are a protégé of Shepard's, are you not?" Samara asked, looking him up and down.

"I am," he answered stoutly.

"Your compassion does you credit."

He wasn't sure what to say to that, either.

Falere reached out, fingers touching Samara's elbow. "May I address him?" she asked softly.

For a moment, Vega wondered if this was one of those Justicar/ardat-yakshi things, but Samara's answer and tone suggested that it was simply shyness among strangers. "Of course."

Falere's eyes flicked up to meet his for a moment, before her gaze settled on his chin. "This is my home, Lieutenant, no matter what has become of it. And from all I've heard about the wider galaxy just now, there is no real place for refugees. It is in my best interests to remain here. I…" she flushed, turning purple. "I've been here so long. Even a choice between two less than perfect options is still a choice. I'm grateful to have had one in this matter."

He didn't know what to say to that, either.

Falere suddenly chuckled, though the sound was brittle and edged with tears. "You're very sweet, Lieutenant. Thank you."

Vega grimaced. "I didn't say anything."

"No," Falere answered quickly. "It was just…something in your expression. I haven't seen it very often."

There was nothing else he could do. _Clearly_ , there was nothing else to be done. And he'd wasted his breath trying. "Thank you, ladies. Sorry to bother you."

"It was no bother," Samara answered, inclining her head regally.

"No bother at all," Falere answered. "In fact…if you wouldn't object," she addressed this to her mother. When Samara didn't give any indication of objection, Falere continued to Vega, "I'd love to talk with you for a little while."

Vega felt his expression trying to crinkle up. "You wouldn't rather talk to your mom?"

Falere glanced at Samara, who nodded as if granting permission. "There's so little to say. Or perhaps too much. All of it limned with grief."

Vega winced. He hadn't forgotten that her sister died in that hellhole. He'd simply tried to put it from his mind.

"I would take it as a kindness if you would honor her request," Samara interjected. "As Shepard could tell you, I have lost much of the art of conversation."

Falere's hand snaked out and wrapped briefly around one of Samara's. Not a contradiction, but a signal of understanding.

"Uh…I guess. What do you want to talk about?" Vega asked, shifting from foot to foot.

"What is your name? Where do you come from?" Falere asked promptly.


	422. Examine the Pieces

"Falere?"

Falere turned back to see Shepard striding over to her, pausing on the way to pick up a small case which had been placed off to one side at some point during the offloading of supplies. "Yes, Captain?"

Samara was visible, but strangely enough was not watching the interaction.

"I want you to take this." Shepard held out the case, standing so Samara—if she'd been looking—could see her back, but not the tradeoff.

Falere took it, found the case heavy. When she opened it, she was met with contoured foam and a series of items she only knew from pictures: ammunition blocks, heat sinks, and a pistol. "I…I'm not sure I follow," she answered, regarding the weapons uneasily.

"If the Reapers come back, it's better if you have some way to…to end things on your own terms as painlessly as possible. I thought about asking Dr. Chakwas to whip you up an injectable cocktail, but that would only work on you," Shepard answered.

Falere understood what Shepard was suggesting: she could practice with one block of ammunition, and if they came back, she could shoot more than a few Reapers before taking her own life. She wasn't sure if she needed to indulge the sense of revenging herself on them for Rila's death, and the deaths of all the other women who once lived here.

"It's better to have it and not need it," Shepard pressed.

Falere closed the case. "I don't think the Justicar would approve."

"I doubt her Code would approve," Shepard answered. "I think Samara would appreciate the forethought. Trust me. As deaths go? You won't feel a thing. Just put the barrel here," Shepard pointed a finger into the soft spot under her chin. "Close your eyes, and squeeze the trigger."

Falere gave a brittle chuckle. Maybe that was why Samara wasn't silently policing this conversation: she couldn't do anything about what she didn't see or hear. It showed how much she trusted Shepard. "Very well, Captain. To oblige you."

"Thank you. If you ever need me," Shepard held out a datapad, which probably contained various methods for getting hold of her directly.

Falere knew that, when the small generators had been brought, an engineer had come with them to route them into the power grid, and make sure that everything that needed to work did. They weren't enough to power the whole facility, but they did turn on the lights, run the atmospheric controls for the living quarters, and would let her use the kitchen.

"You've already been so very generous. You and your crew," Falere said, taking the offered datapad.

"You're welcome." Shepard glanced around the landing pad, as if she shared some of Lieutenant Vega's doubts about Falere's ability to scratch a living here. Unlike Lieutenant Vega, Shepard didn't try to argue. "Take care of yourself."

"I will, thank you."

With that, Shepard nodded, turned on her heel and jogged back to the shuttle, which was waiting for her.

Falere turned quickly, reentering the enormous building, now so empty. She waited until the sounds of shuttles taking off—doubtless Samara had only waited with the soldiers, but taken her own shuttle so as not to leave it—died, leaving her alone in the silence.

Still carrying the case and the datapad, Falere made her way to the gardens. The neutron purge hadn't affected those, she hoped.

She slipped off her shoes, settling on one of the walkways interspersing the patches of vegetables and fruits, then dug her toes into the soft, warm earth—an old habit from a time when she had not been as reconciled to being a pariah as she was now.

She used to do this when she was young, come and pretend she was a plant. Feel the warm caress of the sun. The gentle kisses of the rain. The earth that did not reject her. The plants that did not judge her. Even now, it helped. She didn't doubt she would find herself doing this more often than she ever had, even in those hard first years here.

Memories of the others lingered like ghosts, and the silence inside…she suspected it would be uncanny.

With no one here to complain, perhaps she could camp out here on the gardening terraces in good weather? Better to be outdoors than in, when 'in' was full of darkness, silence, and ghosts.

If Samara survived, she would come back to visit.

If anyone survived the war, maybe this place would be home to others again.

If Samara died, Falere felt sure Shepard—or one of her crewmen, should Shepard also fall—would come here to tell her. Perhaps Lieutenant Vega, with his kind youthfulness. She found herself rather hoping he found someone who could appreciate that sweetness she sensed in him; someone who would recognize it for the treasure it was, rare and special.

Falere drew her feet out of the soil, then walked barefoot to the edge of the terrace, aware of the gun in its padded case lying out of reach behind her. Yes, it was probably better to have a way to end things painlessly.

It had been strange, surrounded by so many non-asari . Strange enough that she'd begun to appreciate what would probably be a dislike of crowds. And the idea of going out into the galaxy? Surrounded by crowds of different peoples? It made her shiver.

Who would have thought that what once felt like a prison would ever come to feel like a home? But it had felt like home when she realized it had been invaded. Desecrated.

She shook herself halfway through the thought 'violated.' The breech of the sanctity of her home paralleled too closely what had happened to the rest of the inmates. Falere closed her eyes, tears seeping silently down her cheeks as she grieved for all those who had died in such hideous ways. Ardat-yakshi and their keepers alike. From her 'low-risk' sister to the 'high-risk' Yanis.


	423. Resolution

Campbell was of two minds about going into the mess hall…until Bethany Westmoreland, with a grin, grabbed her by the arm and frog-marched her in. Another of the Captain's impossibly larger-than-life allies had allowed Shepard to offer the _Normandy's_ services as a taxi, and of all the former allies and crewman Campbell had heard about, this was the one who most captured her attention.

Samara. The Justicar. Almost a thousand years old, dedicated to a single code of conduct—if one believed Joker, someone who could kill everyone on the ship very serenely. What really caught Campbell's imagination was the fact that this Justicar existed both as an anachronism _and_ as a pillar of her society. On the one hand, Justicars—as Joker described them—made her think of paladins, of wandering samurai, of all those characters that had populated her childhood preferences for entertainment. They sounded mythical and legendary.

On the other hand, it had been made clear that _no asari_ would _ever_ question a Justicar's prerogative—anachronism or not. Privately, Campbell wondered how far this latitude went. Like, say, if Councilor Irissa did something really stupid—or, to use the proper term, _unjust_ —whether _she_ could be killed by this Justicar and the asari would be like 'we'll send a replacement as soon as the bloodstains are out of the carpets.'

The idea boggled her mind.

Her first good look at Samara reinforced the woman's position as something half mythical, half relic, and all too real. Tall, shapely—it bothered her that asari could live to be a thousand without her curves all going…droopy—but somehow austere, remote. The neutral expression made Campbell think of a very old woman suddenly roped into attending a nursery for a few hours.

Well, a thousand years to the less-than-fifty most people on this ship had. She had every right to feel like she was surrounded by children.

Still, for a killer such as Joker described, she looked very elegant. At the moment, she sat with Javik. They weren't talking, although Javik seemed as standoffish as he always did. Samara had a cup of coffee, but apparently just so no one would ask if she wanted anything.

"No way!" Gabby hissed at Donnelly as Campbell and Bethany joined the queue for dinner. "Forget five credits. I'll bet you _fifty_ credits you can't go over there and say something polite and charming."

Palmer, who also heard this challenge, turned her head and gave a small snort which indicated plainly she agreed with Gabby.

"Shots fired, Donnelly," Bethany observed with a grin.

Donnelly—whose sense of humor had gotten him into trouble numerous times (but not so much that anyone ever lodged formal complaints about him)—snorted, taking a swig of his coffee as if bracing himself. "Done. There was this thing back on the Citadel. It'll look nice over my bunk."

"Dude, no one wanted to know that," Bethany offered before the line moved and she could no longer participate in the conversation without raising her voice.

Donnelly, and Campbell had to work not to laugh, mimicked Bethany to her back. "I love you too, Westie."

Bethany, calmly and without care, said 'sir,' reached behind her back, and passed Donnelly a sly one-fingered salute.

"That's telling him," Gabby chuckled. "So, you gonna do it, or do I smell chicken?"

"Probably," Palmer sighed, ladling a scoop of some kind of chicken casserole onto Campbell's plate.

Gabby opened her mouth, then grimaced.

"Yes, a very fabulous chicken, right?" Donnelly grinned.

"You know what, Kenneth? What Westmoreland said. Without the 'sir,'" Gabby shot back.

Campbell and Bethany joined Donnelly and Gabby at their table.

Donnelly waited until Gabby wasn't looking then reached under the table. He must have tweaked her knee.

" _Kenneth!_ "

"Donnelly," Shepard's voice cut across Gabby's deep breath before launching a rejoinder. "If she kills you, it's going to annoy me." Her tone said she was only half-serious; she looked amused, anyway.

Donnelly adopted a hurt look. "Or, you know, because I'd be dead, Captain, you could be annoyed with the one who killed me!"

"When you brought it upon yourself? That wouldn't be fair, would it?"

"This ship," Donnelly said in a long-suffering tone, "is full of hard-hearted women…and officers." He added the last bit to Shepard's back, as if placing her in a unique category.

"So, do you want these fifty credits, or don't you?" Gabby asked.

"I'm not hearing this," Shepard said lightly, before stepping forward to engage Palmer. "That looks _amazing_."

"Alright, damn it. I will," Donnelly huffed, throwing back the last of his coffee before finishing off the last of Palmer's delicious cherry cobbler. "We're old shipmates, after all. It's only polite to say hello."

"Enjoy that last meal," Gabby declared innocently, before disappearing behind her coffee.

Donnelly pulled a face at her, then got up and started confidently towards Samara.

The Justicar couldn't help notice…and probably noticed that Donnelly had a table of three watching his every move. Something in Samara's smile shifted, becoming more austere, more aloof, more…as if seeing through him to the hidden core within.

Donnelly slowed down…then slowed some more…then stopped.

"He'll never make it. Even if he didn't have a guilty conscience about something, Samara can make people _imagine_ they feel guilty," Gabby chuckled. "Easy fifty credits."

Donnelly suddenly stopped, waved—in nerdy fashion, Campbell thought—then returned to the table. "I really hate you," he declared, before opening his omnitool and transferring the credits. "She still freaks me the hell out."

Campbell thought hard as she finished her dinner. She got up, returned her dishes for cleaning, and came to an abrupt decision.

Shepard could go head-to-head with Reapers, and Rachni, and Cerberus, and just about anything else that looked at her cross-eyed. _She_ , at the very least, could brave coming across as a kind of fangirl. Especially once Shepard joined Javik and Samara, just in case she said anything wrong.

With that, Campbell squared her shoulders and crossed the mess hall.


	424. Conversation

It was pleasant to be among the many again, even if most of the faces were unfamiliar. It was also strange to be sitting in silence with the man who called himself Javik—a self-professed Prothean, and Samara was inclined to believe him. It was a different kind of silence to that which she shared with Thane. She missed Thane, and grieved to hear he had finally passed. Something in the way Shepard flung it at her made Samara sure he had not died of Kepral's, in bed, surrounded by loved ones.

The silence she shared with Javik was different from the silence shared with most. He was a creature of war, she sensed, and didn't know what to do with non-conflict. Even such a relative state of 'non-conflict' as could be found at dinner in the _Normandy_ 's mess hall.

More than that, she sensed deep sorrow, immense wells of loss and horror, all brutally cauterized and capped so the whole might remain…if not healthy, at least _functional_. But what could one expect of a man whose Cycle was lost to the Reapers? Who presumable saw more of what they could do than was good for any sapient?

Samara gave the young soldier her attention as the girl approached the table where she sat with Shepard and Javik. "Excuse me?" the girl smiled hesitantly.

"Hey, Campbell," Shepard grinned—speaking for her benefit, Samara thought, since she couldn't actually read the nametags most of the crew wore.

"Captain." Anxious eyes darted around Samara's face, the girl's drift indicating more the excitement of someone confronted with a legendary titan than anything else. "It's an honor to meet you, ma'am."

"Oh? Thank you," Samara answered.

Shepard's eyebrows arched with surprise.

Campbell swallowed. "Joker talked a lot while we were keeping an eye on him," she answered, glancing from Samara to Shepard and back.

Shepard soundlessly mouthed 'ah,' then nodded as if this made perfect sense.

Knowing Joker as she did, Samara was not surprised either. Joker liked to talk. Perhaps more than he should.

"I would be careful believing what Joker says," Samara observed idly. "He has a tendency to exaggerate."

"Campbell is one of my first-hitch servicemen," Shepard clarified.

Ah, that explained a little. Well, a wide-eyed human wasn't much different from a wide-eyed asari maiden, after all. "Are you indeed?" Samara indicated the girl should sit down. The girl did so, almost immediately dropping into the empty chair. "And is your term of service living up to your expectations?"

"The first couple years…no. But it's really interesting _now_ , so…I guess I got what I wanted?"

"A fortunate thing, to be sure. Tell me, how much was the bet for?" Samara indicated Donnelly's back with a flick of her eyes. The table had settled down a little since his return.

If Campbell had had a drink, she might have spat it back into her cup. "How…did you know?" Campbell asked, as Shepard snorted down a chuckle.

"One comes to recognize behavior after a while. And Donnelly does enjoy childish games," Samara answered benignly. However, she was more than mature enough to know how to encourage him to take said games elsewhere without needing to actually say anything. Age did bring its benefits.

"Fifty credits," Campbell admitted.

"A fool and his money are soon parted," Samara declared simply. "A valuable lesson, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I—"

" _See_?!" Daniels suddenly hissed, loud enough to just be heard. "Even the _first-termer_ 's braver than you are!" Whatever Donnelly said went unheard, but prompted a stifled laugh from both Daniels and the other girl at the table. Laughter, and a conciliatory pat on the shoulder from Daniels.

Well, with all the difficulties Donnelly caused for others, it was good to see him taking his lumps like a mature adult.

"Are they still at that stage, then?" Samara asked Shepard, indicating the table where the two engineers sat.

"Eke and Meek. I hope they never grow up," Shepard grinned lazily, before finishing her casserole.

"Joker said you could crunch a car like an empty beer can if you wanted to…could you?" Campbell asked, eyes shining.

It was far from the most clichéd question she'd ever been asked by an enthusiastic youngster. Samara found herself smiling lazily—partly at the annoyance the Prothean fellow exhibited. Apparently, Campbell's ingenuous interest disrupted his calm. Samara doubted it was jealousy, and resisted the urge to ask Javik how the young were to learn if they did not ask questions. "If the car has it coming, yes. I suppose I could." Knowing full well that she could, because Samara also knew that she had. Although it was less the car's fault and more the person driving it. But she was sure there were plenty of other asari who could do it just as easily or neatly, or what have you.

"Wow." Then, hastily, "I'm sorry if I'm being rude! It's just…" Red began to creep into the girl's face.

"I am an object of curiosity," Samara allowed. "And doubtless Joker has had much to do with that."

"He only ever said good things. _Very_ complimentary for Joker," Campbell assured her.

How reassuring. Not that Samara particularly cared. Joker liked to tell stories if he could get people to sit and listen. Clearly, this young woman had been susceptible to the lure of other people's adventures. Samara knew what the girl wanted: more stories. However, it was not really a Justicar's place to regale others with her exploits.

"So, what is interesting in this latter part of your first tour of duty?" Samara asked.

"Everything, really," Campbell answered. "The Captain attracts interesting people…and gets into _the_ most intense and _weird_ situations."

Samara smiled at Shepard's rueful chuckle, the shrug of 'can't argue with that.'

"That she does." It was good to see Shepard smile, even if Samara could see the strain behind it, could see Shepard was actively not thinking about something—several somethings—while she enjoyed dinner with comrades, old and new.


	425. Untangle

When Samara ambushed Alenko, he knew why. "Is this about Shepard?"

There was no need to mince words. "She loves you very much. But I suspect you already know this." There was no condemnation in Samara's tone, just a deep-seated concern for Shepard.

Alenko slowly nodded.

"Shepard is one of those rare individuals who will love someone the way she loves you only once in her lifetime, for all of her lifetime."

Alenko's drift turned murky, as though he hadn't realized what 'very much' meant in its fullest extent of context.

"Now that I didn't know."

"It takes many years to learn to perceive such things," Samara allowed graciously.

"You going to tell me to not break her heart?"

"Hardly. I do not believe you have any intention or inclination to do so—accidentally or otherwise. No, I merely wish you to understand something. Shepard has been a good friend to me, and it is concern for her welfare that compels me to speak with you on the matter. Otherwise, I would hold my peace: this is a delicate topic, after all. Deeply personal."

Alenko waited in orange apprehension.

Samara considered her next words carefully. Unlike most people, she did not display any kind of nervous fidget, or even a thoughtful one, which clearly made Alenko uneasy. "Shepard is very strong for many—for so very many. She has no choice in the matter and she accepts her burden with silent dignity, as is proper. But she keeps no strength for herself, so it must come from some other quarter. I believe, without reservation, that the strength she needs can be found in you. You've seen her weaknesses, you've touched her frailties, you've undoubtedly felt the bone-deep weariness she carries." Alenko nodded once in affirmation. "Then I need say no more. I begin to suspect you have already come to many of these conclusions. My words are redundant."

"There is one thing I want to ask you," Alenko spat the words out sure they would stall if he did not.

Samara arched her eyebrows, a little surprised, as Alenko recollected his presentation of the dignified officer, which his request momentarily disrupted. "Ask, then."

"I spoke to another asari…she had a few things to say about Shepard."

"And they unnerved you." He nodded. "What, exactly, did this asari say?"

Alenko took a deep breath, as if scraping the memory together so as to report it accurately. "That women like Shepard are inevitably self-destructive." Alenko's drift turned pea-soup green lanced with blue determination that _this should not be_. "That sooner or later she'd burn…and maybe it was best that she burned alone."

"There is more?" came the gentle prompt. She did not need to prompt very hard: Alenko _wanted_ to have this conversation. She just needed to dislodge him from mental ruts every so often.

Alenko considered. "She seems to think Shepard would not die in peace, and that…'the only arms she will feel will be the cold arms of death'. She said I wouldn't be able to save her."

Samara considered the matter deeply as she looked into Alenko's face. He had the same grave lines around eyes and mouth as Shepard: he, too, had seen grim things beginning at an early age. No need to soften the truth then. Plain speech was best. "There is some truth in what this asari told you, but I do not think she gave you a complete assessment. She told you enough to provoke a response…but she left out key mitigating factors."

"Like?" Hope bubbled in Alenko's drift. Anything less bleak was a vast, vast improvement.

"Were you…at odds…with Shepard when this 'sighting' was given?" Alenko's expression answered the question, relieving him of having to give verbal affirmation. "Then it was a fair assessment that, at the time, _your_ arms didn't hold Shepard and she was on a particularly dangerous mission that could have ended with her death." Samara smiled indulgently. "I think this asari merely meant to light a fire under you, young man. Nothing more."

Alenko's drift pulsed fizzy golden at 'young man,' but he clearly reconsidered the fact that she was ancient compared to himself and the 'fizz' receded to the 'usual' steady brown.

"People of Shepard's type do trend towards self-destruction—but usually for altruistic causes. This is often mitigated by having someone expecting them to come home. They take fewer risks, choose their risks more carefully," Samara continued patiently. "And as far as Shepard not dying in peace…Shepard will always be a woman at war with _someone_ or _something_. The only comfort I can grant you in this is that while she will spend her life in conflict, there will never be another war to equal this. If this war does not claim her then, goddess willing, she will probably live to her full span of years. Or close to it. She'll probably die tripping over something and falling down the stairs."

This prosaic reassurance had the desired effect on Alenko. A smile touched his face, indicating that the bland remark about casual death maintained its levity and didn't strike any dolorous veins. His drift smoothed out and turned back to its usual unruffled, sturdy brown, but there was a sort of humor trembling in it, like a string on a deep-voiced instrument after being plucked. "That's good to know. Thank you, Samara."

"It was my pleasure. You might ask her to tell her story. And listen to it." The asari inclined her head as Alenko strode off.

Yes, someone had meant to light a fire under that young man…and done a remarkably poor job of it. Instead of catapulting him to Shepard's aid, this mysterious asari engaged the emergency brakes on action for fear of doing something wrong.

It was about time someone sorted the lad out.

She would not want to do it very often, but untangling the knots in the love life of a friend like Shepard was not a bad way to end a day.


	426. Incomplete

Samara studied Shepard as she had not permitted herself to do while danger surrounded them and lives were at stake. What she saw was what she expected to see: the weight of responsibility pushing down on the soldier and there was a question of how long it could continue to do so before something gave way.

Her own advice to Major Alenko came back to her, twisting and shifting.

It was one thing to carry one's burden in silence. It was another to carry it alone if it was not necessary. Like many such individuals, Shepard had lost track of how to ask for help—or feared the asking, less because she feared someone failing her and more because she feared a moment when the full burden would be given back to her and time without all its weight would leave her unable to carry on.

It seemed a bit out of place for a Justicar to give the kind of advice formulating in her mind…but sometimes it took an adult to convey something, and however old Shepard was among humans, however mature she was among all the species…she was still a child, if Samara studied her objectively.

"I am going to give you a piece of advice Shepard, and I should like you to think very seriously on it," she announced.

Shepard looked up from the chair into which she'd settled—the only one that didn't have a spectacular view of the windows currently showing the _Normandy's_ FTL envelope. She got to her feet, regarding Samara attentively. "I'd be grateful for your insight."

Samara let a rusty smile toy about her mouth. Shepard said that _now_ , but the advice wasn't the comfortable kind. "I am going to be very presumptuous, my friend." She moved so she could settle her hands on Shepard's shoulders. They were bony, and the muscles drawn tightly. "Of all the people I know, you deserve to love and be loved."

Shepard's expression twisted into non-comprehension—whether willful or not, Samara wasn't certain—as she regarded the Justicar. "…ah…thanks?"

"My people have a saying: ask not for a lighter burden; search for one to share the load."

Shepard looked away almost guiltily. "Thank you." It was a tone that would have discouraged the continuation of the conversation with most people. Her drift shuddered and quivered like an injured animal having its hurts prodded. Fortunately, Samara thought, she was not most people.

"I'm sorry Shepard, but I have not finished," Samara answered gently. "I believe you and the Major share a bond?"

Shepard shrugged free of her, looking irritable. "What _is_ it with you people?" she asked in a terse undertone. "First Wrex, then Liara, now _you_. Maybe it's not of anybody's business! Cheese and _rice_ ," she nearly spat, her skin turning pink.

Well that was a big 'yes.' "In general I would agree with you. However, as it is you with whom I am speaking…" she waved indicatively. "Will he be there to chase the nightmares away?"

Shepard opened her mouth, then closed it, looking thoroughly wrong-footed by the question.

"Will you let him see your tears as well as your smiles? Would you let him hold you when the demands of the galaxy become to be too much? Will you let him catch you when you fall?" This time, Samara did wait for Shepard to answer her.

Shepard struggled. Confronted by these kinds of questions, she had to confront issues too easily swept aside. Her face turned pink and her aura turned an unpleasant orange-brown of distress. "I don't know how," she finally admitted in a tone barely above a whisper.

"Would you do and be all of these things for him?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation and although Shepard did not look up at her the firmness of total resolution as behind the word.

"Then do not waste the time you have—not one single moment. Do not let self-doubt deprive you of support freely offered."

This time Shepard did look up. "Are you…playing matchmaker?" she asked suspiciously.

"I am giving you the advice I would have given my own daughters," Samara answered. "Do you think there will be fewer challenges, fewer hurdles to overcome if the Reapers are defeated? And if they cannot be, why should you deprive yourself of this one thing that brings you comfort and strength?"

Shepard closed her eyes, her expression rigid. She said nothing, but the pain in her drift—which seemed strange, somehow—continued to quiver around tiny splinters of golden hope.

"I meant what I said: of all the people I know or have known, you are certainly among the most worthy of being loved. Your own advice to anyone else about whom you cared would be the same."

"What happened to your bond-mate?" Shepard asked in a low tone.

The question still caused a twinge of pain, and Shepard had undoubtedly used it to repel this line of conversation. "We drifted after Morinth was diagnosed. I eventually joined the Justicars. She…died. Later." The pain was dull now. It was also why she counseled Shepard as she did: had she and Lyria found a way to share the burden of their children's conditions, then perhaps things might have been different. Perhaps she might have left the fate of Morinth in another's hands…and in so doing, perhaps Lyria would still be alive. "And that is why I say to you what I have said. Don't waste the time you have. If there are years and decades before you, then I will be heartily glad. But if there are only weeks or months…" Samara closed her eyes, then turned on her heel. "Jump in with both feet if you have to. You do it for things likely to kill you. Do it for something likely to save you." With this, she strode to the door and nearly walked into Major Alenko, who seemed to have been teetering on knocking. "Major, you have wonderful timing. She is all yours."


	427. Compassion

"Ugh…" The sound was so faint, but Becker heard it like a scream and was halfway to the middle of the troupe before Brigs' bearers could cry out that she'd finally shown signs of life. For a moment he felt a surge of hope that maybe, just maybe, something would pan out.

"Brigs!" He wasn't the only one to say it, though he was certainly one of the quieter ones. The troupe immediately went into a stop formation, outliers with rifles taking a knee to ensure that there would be covered fire if anything came upon them. It was a sign of learned discipline that those responsible for providing fire if it should be needed did not let Brigs' return to full consciousness distract them from their duty.

She looked so pale and Becker had tried to pretend that, during the light of day, he hadn't noticed that shadows had developed under her eyes and that her lips looked a little darker, greyer, than they should. Now, though, under the evening shadows, she looked truly grotesque.

She whimpered before swallowing hard. A moment later, after what looked like a genuine effort, she opened her eyes again. Was that a trick of his eyes, or had he seen an odd blue spark in hers, a split second after she opened them? "Ugh…hi fellas," Brigs started to smile, but he knew her smiles and this wasn't one of them. "Damn, Becker…you're still so _ugly_."

"Your morphine's run out," Becker said, ignoring the feeble joke even if the others took the attempt at humor as a good sign. "Must have lapsed while you were out. Sorry about that."

Brigs' bland expression belied what he read into her next words. "Save it."

If she told him to save it, that meant there was no more point administering it now than there had been earlier—which was exactly why he hadn't. She would know that. She couldn't not know. The easy front she presented now was simply and purely for the benefit of the others, so they wouldn't have to carry the images of her suffering in her last minutes.

That was Brigs all over. Compassionate and caring and now she was dead. Her body just hadn't figured it out, yet.

Damn the Reapers. Damn them to hell and whoever came up with them, too! He wasn't sure there was a deep enough, dark enough, horrible enough place to damn them to, but consign them there he certainly did.

Brigs endured the well-wishes and relief that burst from the troupe, comforted Jonas and soothed his concerns. Every word, every minute of her friendly-but-tired expression, was an effort. He could see it, and see the toll it took on her to maintain the lie that everything was—or would be—alright.

No one noticed how Becker's expression became hard, as if etched into a granite block. It would have been better if she hadn't woken up, if she'd just passed in her sleep. And what had her death purchased? Just the knowledge of a new Reaper horror out there. He knew he ought to think in terms of 'now we know what to expect if we come across another one' but he couldn't muster the energy.

He knew losses were inevitable. The group had already experienced losses. But this…this was different. This wasn't a quick death, or an ugly one because of a gutshot or other catastrophic wound. This was, he knew, the Reapers' true horror: taking the dead or injured and turning them against their own side.

"Hey, I gotta take a leak," Brigs said, shifting restlessly. "Becker, lend a hand. If you left my guts hanging out, I don't want anyone else puking all over the place."

This was it. He helped Brigs to her feet and let her lean heavily on him as they walked into the jungle.

"Did I do okay? Do they know?" she asked softly, her voice now laced with pain, her brows knitting.

"I don't think so. You almost had me fooled."

She gave a laugh that sounded like a sob and ended on a groan of pain. "They got me, Becker. I can…feel it."

He glanced over to find her eyes full of tears. "It's gonna be okay, Brigs."

"That's why I asked for you. 'Cuz they don't understand, most of them. They can't."

Becker deemed they were far enough away from the camp and helped Brigs sit down. Yes, she had a distinctly grey looked around her mouth and the shadows under her eyes looked unnaturally dark.

"I'm turning into one of them, aren't I?" she asked.

Becker didn't answer, more because he couldn't than because he didn't suspect. He teased her shirt back and squeezed his eyes closed as though this could somehow erase what he saw: what were previously thin black rings around the entry wounds in Brigs' body had expanded, were sending out greyish fingers, using her circulatory system to spread the pollution.

Brigs gave a stifled sob, the tears falling in earnest now.

"It's okay, Brigs. It's gonna be okay." If only because he was going to spare her being turned against her unit. He released his sidearm and checked it.

Brigs tried to smile, but the fear remained embedded in her eyes. "You'll be okay without me?"

"I'll manage; that's all I can promise."

"Good. Don't…don't let's draw this out. It hurts and I'm scared. Whatever's on the other side can't be any worse than this."

Becker took Brigs in his arms, felt her tear-stained eyes press into his shoulder. He wanted to drag it out, to wring out those last seconds of the life of a friend he'd had for so long. But he couldn't let her suffer and it was clear she was suffering. He put her back from him a little way and put a steadying hand on her shoulder. He kissed her forehead as he lined up the gun with the underside of her chin.

"Hang tough, Becker."


	428. Addressing Elephants

Alenko stepped hastily back as the Justicar glided out of the observation lounge, leaving Shepard by herself. "Here for the view?" Shepard asked.

"Actually, I was here to talk to you. Do you have a few minutes?"

"Sure." With that, Shepard palmed the shutters closed. Something in the line of her shoulders relaxed as the opaque shutters blocked the view of—

Oh. Even if all they could see was the FTL envelope the Normandy travelled in, Shepard had…died…in space.

"What's on your mind?"

Alenko dropped onto the couch and considered Shepard for a moment. Then he heaved a heavy sigh and stood up again.

Before Shepard could make one of her 'okay, heavy issues' acknowledgments, Alenko took both her hands in his. They were bony, with long fingers, the nails kept brutally short. "Look. Since we moved away from the hospital bed, there've been lots of elephants in the room."

Shepard pursed her lips briefly, expression suddenly guarded, as if she didn't quite trust where this conversation was going. She didn't take her hands back, however. "You missed a lot." He knew she tried not to sound bitter. She didn't entirely succeed.

"It's why I'm asking you to-to fill me in. From the last time I saw you on the SR-1 until now."

Shepard was decidedly not looking at him. Or, rather, her attention was focused on his chest rather than his face. "I don't think we're ready for this."

"Shepard—"

"Maybe _I'm_ not ready for this," she interrupted sharply.

It was not his mother's advice that came to his rescue. As she moved to step away, to pull her hands free of his—her conversation with Samara must have kicked some tender spots—he tightened his grip. "'Before you abuse, ridicule or accuse, walk a mile, just a mile, walk a mile in my shoes.'"

Shepard went still, but her gaze flicked up to his face again. "I didn't know you liked Cruel and Unusual."

Alenko's mouth quirked on one side. "They're not my favorite…but this girl I know is a fan. And I figured one of these days she might want to see them live instead of over the Extranet."

"…concerts are loud and the lights are ridiculous…"

"Yeah. She might have to drive me home afterwards."

Shepard's laugh had a fragile quality to it.

Alenko sensed he'd just regained some ground he'd lost. Yes, he didn't do concerts…but maybe one, just one, with her. Maybe it would be worth the migraine afterwards. "Please talk to me, Jalissa. I won't interrupt, or prod you for details, or anything like that. But sooner or later, I need your version—your perspective," he corrected himself hastily. 'Your version' sounded like it had too much pre-existing doubt.

"Samara talked to you, too, didn't she?" Shepard sighed.

"She didn't suggest anything I hadn't been thinking," he answered. "I've heard different versions of that lost time from everyone except the one who was in the middle of it. And Garrus made it clear he wasn't talking until you did." Not that the turian ever said as much; it was just the vibe Alenko got when conversation trended towards that period of separation.

Shepard pursed her lips again, expression drawing. Then she sighed heavily. She opened her mouth as if to start, then closed it and looked around haplessly, or as if for inspiration.

"…maybe just what you think is important?" he offered gently.

Shepard's eyes flashed, but when she spoke it was neither accusing nor angry nor bitter. "What was important was that I missed you. And that no one seemed able to find you. And when I realized the mission was likely one way, I didn't want you to know I was back. So you wouldn't lose me again," she declared, the words bitten off as if part of her didn't want to admit any of this.

Shock tactic, he thought. Well, shock and maybe a little guilt. Something to make him back off. He found himself smiling wearily at this insight that proved he knew her. "That sounds like you," he admitted quietly. " _Ex post facto_ , I appreciate the thought."

The line of Shepard's mouth twisted, as if she wasn't sure what to do with this. It wasn't something she could argue, after all. It didn't let her change the direction of the conversation, either.

"Dammit, Kaidan," Shepard huffed, then threw herself onto the seat beside him—close enough to show she wasn't angry, but not too close—then put her head in her hands. "Part of me is still angry, and I don't want to be."

He wondered how much it cost her to admit that out loud. He would have been surprised if she wasn't angry—or, rather, hurt and angry because of it—for all she was willing to rebuild. "Maybe you've got a few things you'd like to get off your chest? Most people would agree I've got it coming."

Shepard snorted. "I'm past the point of wanting to sail into you…in earnest." Suddenly, she laughed, but it sounded brittle. "At least our first big fight wasn't over something stupid. Like the position of the toilet seat."

Alenko rested a hand on her back. He was about to say something, that this was important, that him allowing her to tell him how it was—not to justify herself, but to let him hear the truth, rather than the muddle he'd constructed to fill that blank—was vital to their being able to move forward.

"I died in space," she announced bluntly, turning so she could watch his reaction out of the corner of her eye. "My suit was depressurizing and I fell up into a planet's atmosphere. I'm not sure which actually killed me. There was so little left of me when it was all said and done. Just charred meat and melted slag. I have trouble looking out a window into space, now."

True to his word, Alenko said nothing. He merely watched her, listening.


	429. Off Your Chest

Shepard kept waiting for Alenko to interrupt. She wasn't handling this as well as she would have liked, in that she kept looking at him to see what his reactions were. And not subtly either. This wasn't like talking to the krogan in the female camp. She thought, at the time, telling her story was stressful.

She'd been mistaken.

She also noticed herself selectively glossing things over—mostly around the escape from the Lazarus Station. It was very uncomfortable, very personal, to know she'd been leaking orange goo everywhere and shouldn't have been off a medical table at all. Also, she wasn't sure Alenko's team-medic mindset would be able to simply accept stilted explanations for such matters, and an interruption would have been a way to put off the conversation.

In this, Alenko surprised her. He clearly _wanted_ to ask for details or clarification, even opened his mouth to do so on several occasions. But he always caught himself, shook his head if she happened to be looking at him—or if he thought she was—that he wasn't going to say whatever was on his mind. He'd file it away for later, if he remembered, and if he didn't, that was fine too.

The part of her that still wanted a fight was disappointed. The rest of her was relieved.

Every time she heard the chain of events beginning over Alchera, they sounded more and more improbable. Maybe she wouldn't have actually blamed him if he didn't believe her. In all fairness, _she_ sometimes wondered 'did we really do that? How did that even work?'

It also made her question what she wanted: did she want him to believe her, or did she simply want him to accept that this was her version of events? The longer she spoke, the more she felt she wanted the latter. She didn't need to be justified, didn't need him to admit that she was right (or to admit that he'd been wrong). Right and wrong didn't seem to matter so much. She just wanted the elephants out of the room, to be allowed to tell her story, from her perspective, without it being picked at.

So it meant something—more than a little something—that he was able to contain questions, or worse, commentary, throughout the narrative. Even though she found herself amenable to discussing Legion, and what he represented. The opportunity didn't arise, but discussing Legion at some point sounded like a good idea.

She was still a little surprised that the geth hadn't reached out in some fashion. This was, after all, their galaxy, too. And they knew what the Reapers could do to 'lesser synthetics.'

Although Alenko remained silent, according to his promise, he was not uncommunicative. She could see the emotions flickering across his face, and apparently he made no effort to hide them. There was confusion, sometimes that little frown that meant he didn't _disbelieve_ what he was being told, but that the matter wasn't as clearly explained as he would like. Most often there was a growing disquiet, as if he had grossly underestimated her position.

Shepard found she was not able to sit still through the retelling. She would get up, prowl around the room, then sit back down for a few minutes. Fidget. Then get back up, nervous energy buzzing in her limbs.

When she did sit, however, she could count on a hand to wrap around hers, or to rest, large and warm, between her shoulders. Especially if her nervous energy hinted at distress, which it did as the chronicle of events finally reached more modern happenings.

Shepard knew she weathered life's storms by this point simply because she ignored the thunder and lightning. Having to look back, to introspect, did not do her any favors, she felt. Still, it was part of the narrative.

At the very least, Alenko clearly thought her adoption into Clan Urdnot was a symbolic or ceremonial thing. Maybe she ought to have disabused him of this notion by explaining the privileges and obligations therein…but she didn't. Alenko dealt with Wrex by not giving him the satisfaction of a fight. The chances were high Alenko would be even more unwilling to give Wrex the fight the krogan so clearly wanted if he thought doing so might cause family drama, or other inconveniences.

Alenko would, Shepard sighed inwardly, just have to figure out how to deal with Wrex. Sooner or later. She suspected if Wrex knew they had gotten back together, he would go out of his way to prod Alenko into a confrontation. She also suspected that Wrex would back off if Alenko gave him what he wanted. And if Alenko chose to put Wrex through a wall or something equally dramatic, she wouldn't be the only one not criticizing that choice.

Finally, Shepard dropped back down on the couch, hunching forward and exhaling deeply.

"Holy shit, Jalissa." He didn't sound any more disbelieving than she felt when she looked back and asked herself 'how am I still alive?'

Shepard let out a shaky chuckle.

Alenko ran both hands through his hair, then reached over the side of the couch. A sharp sound of static indicated he'd just released the charge that he, as a biotic, tended to build up. Then, he hesitantly took her hand, as if unsure whether she would permit it this time. "I'm so sorry."

Shepard let him detail why, but found she didn't need more than that. The apology, not the specifics thereof, mattered. Still, she let him finish before squeezing his hand tightly. "Thank you."

Somewhat to her horror, Shepard found her eyes stinging. She rubbed them with the heel of her hand, suddenly aware of…everything. Her efforts to chip away at the Reapers suddenly seemed tiny and insignificant. Her list of things accomplished for the war effort suddenly seemed short, or somehow insignificant.

The weight of it descended upon her almost like a physical sensation.

But she wasn't alone with it.


	430. Comfort

"You know," Alenko declared softly, "I've never really been able to stomach watching you cry." He put a hesitant arm around Shepard's shoulders pulling her close to his side, a warm, shuddery little hummock of humanity.

Shepard did not pull away, nor did she look away from the contemplation of her knees. When she spoke, her voice was low and thick, evidence of the effort to keep her distress at bay. "My dad used to say he hated seeing my mom and sisters cry."

"And you."

Shepard nodded, and despite the tears her tone was perfectly steady—but by now he could almost always spot the rigid forced-calm as opposed to a natural calmness. "It used to make him feel so helpless—so he said."

"Well, yeah," Alenko nodded before turning, reaching up a hand to tilt her face away from her lap, which brought her eyes to fix on his face. She was always so direct; even when she was maneuvering people, she tended to look them in the face. It always seemed, to him, that there was a sort of honesty there, even when she was running her own agendas.

But they were rarely _her_ agendas. "Tears aren't the hard part." He brushed her eyes, removing the tears that still welled up and slipped down her rosy cheeks. He noticed how she bit her lip when his hand brushed across the new scar—surely a disfigurement in her eyes. He saw the mark, but it didn't really translate as an aberration. It was just…part of her. "The hard part is," he dropped his head, so their brows touched, "that with you it's not a…a vent, or release. It just means whatever reservoir your store your tears in, so people can't see them, had overflowed, and the water had to go _somewhere_ to make room for more. It's heartbreaking."

Shepard scooted back. "It just happened. I'd better head up to my office before—"

"Just stay with me—the crew knows you...you need time to yourself. Well, most of it." Carefully, he drew her into his arms, as though a single careless move could shatter her. He knew better, but it was heartbreaking to watch her. How much did she really carry, bottled up until the pressure could no longer be contained? How much of Mindoir, Elysium, her own death, Horizon, a hundred awful happenings spanning a decade and a half of her life was still in there, being flooded out by the new succession of nightmares that was their present?

Shepard gave an involuntary shudder, almost a convulsion that, he realized, was just a physical response to the inner turmoil. However, once the tremors stopped, her posture softened, the tension seeped out. Her breathing became a little more erratic, but that was the only evidence—that and a damp spot forming on his shirt—that the tears still came.

It was more than a quarter hour before Shepard took a deep breath, looked up at him. The tears were on her face, but water no longer welled up and seeped from her eyes. "You're very patient; thank you." She wasn't used to letting people see her at her most human…but he'd seen considerably more of that shell-less, fallible, vulnerable human that lurked beneath a carapace a krogan could be proud of, than most could claim.

"Sometimes…a girl just needs to be held. Right?"

Shepard's eyes narrowed speculatively, but without suspicion. She seemed a little too emotionally tender for 'suspicion.' "You've grown very wise." She gave a laugh that had something of a shuddery sob in it—residual distress only, he decided—before touching the back of her fingers to his cheek. Sure enough, the flesh was very chill…or his face was very warm. Probably the latter, judging by the weak smile, moonlight peering out from behind a cloud.

"I, uh…asked someone who would know. Mom, actually." He didn't want her to get the wrong idea. At this point, he would rather die than admit that he'd gone to the Consort for advice, first. And some advice _she_ had…

The smile widened a touch, "You asked your mother for advice about girls?" Her tone held no derision, only mild surprise…and a touch of pleasure to know she'd been worth an awkward conversation with his mother.

She didn't know his mother, Alenko thought, and he dearly hoped that, somehow, he could get both women in the same room. He knew his mom: because he loved Shepard, she would love and fuss over her to no end. Shepard could use some time to be 'mothered' by someone. As it was with Dr. Chakwas when it came to injuries, there would be no resisting Jia Alenko's good sense and utterly benign attention.

"Figured she know, and she'd be reliable in her advice. She wants her only son to find his lady fair." Her word for that 'lady fair' was usually 'duchess,' and she'd chuckled hard over the idea of 'duchess in combat boots.' "Doesn't matter if she wears combat boots, can skewer a husk like a kabob, successfully charge overwhelming forces, kill a Reaper with a thresher maw, or any of that other gung-ho crap that you do." And, he added silently, his mom wasn't the crazy 'where are my grandkids?' type, so no weird pressure from _that_ quarter.

Another shuddery laugh. "I seem to remember someone else hip deep in all that 'gung-ho crap'."

He had been, once. The return to humor was good, so he took on a tone of mock severity, offset by an increase in the pressure he used to hold her. "Do you know how long it took to get that stuff out of my armor? Here was me hoping rachni 'squishings' were as bad as it got…"

"I know what you're doing," Shepard noted, eyes glittering.

She probably did; Shepard was an astute woman. "Yes, and it seems to be working."

"Yes, it's definitely working," Shepard agreed, before stretching over in order to kiss him gently.


	431. Limit

She shouldn't have kissed him.

She realized it the instant she couldn't seem to pull back, to keep what was supposed to be something short and sweet just that. All she knew was that one moment of warmth, that one spark of something not related to war or that couldn't be found with any other comrade was enough to shatter her resolve like a soap bubble on even the most careful fingers.

She tilted her head and closed her eyes as the gesture was taken for an invitation. Something like relief made it hard to breathe…or maybe that was the scream that had seemed to close to the surface since Thane's death, a scream made harder to suppress by how close she'd come to seeing Samara blow out her own brains.

Or maybe it was leaving Rila, despite knowing the girl was already dead, the way they had.

Or maybe it was the fact that everything she did seemed like a drop in a bucket.

Her fingers dug into Alenko's back, as she gritted her teeth against the building scream. Gentle kisses burned against the line of her neck, teasing forth another wash of saline. She was cracking, breaking under the pressure, and that it had to happen _now_ when she couldn't afford to be breaking…that made her want to scream all the harder and lash out irrationally at the first enemy she could throw herself at.

It was lucky she couldn't. That attitude would get her—or worse, someone she cared about—killed.

It was hard to stay angry though, and the scream was forced back down her throat to lodge there in a painful lump as Alenko's grip on her loosened, allowing him to trace the lines of her shoulder blades with his thumbs.

How long had it been since she'd been handled by someone who didn't have pain in their hands? Or from necessity?

She knew why it seemed like so long—she kept people at a distance, or tried. But Alenko had always been good at getting around those barriers. He'd been the first one she'd ever truly wanted and that hadn't really changed. But the fear of falling flat on her face if she stopped running, if she slowed down for the merest second…the fear of not being able to get _up_ again if she were to fall…

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it dammit dammit dammitdammitdammit…there was a hand around her throat and it was _squeezing_ …

"Jalissa."

It was just weird to hear her given name…or had he been using it more often?

"Jalissa, _look_ at me." There was an edge to his voice that worried her.

She looked up to find an expression of utter distress.

"Don't tell me you're okay," he said softly, forestalling the reflexive words. "Don't lie to me like that. Please."

She shut her mouth, gritting her teeth together.

How had she gotten here?

She knew. She'd slowed down for one moment and now she had to scramble to keep her footing…

-J-

Alenko doubted anyone had known just how far Shepard had been pushed, but it was right there looking back at him. If the silent overflow of her reservoir for tears had been bad, this was worse. She looked well and truly shattered, the toll of the war, of the decisions with so many lives weighing on them, with the threat of utter failure if she screwed up…the fact that the whole war seemed to rely on _her_ …it was there.

It suddenly occurred to him, in a blinding flash _why_ Shepard didn't rely on him or anyone else for anything but the bare minimum. The simple fact was that she didn't know _how_ to ask for help and, if that wasn't enough, was afraid that her weight would upset someone else's load. She shored up her crewmen as best she could but had no idea how to stand back and let someone else put metaphorical medigel where it needed to be.

And she was beginning to pay for that lack of knowledge.

He couldn't even ask how no one saw this splintering—Shepard wouldn't let anyone see it. He wasn't sure she even saw it all—how could she hold up if she stopped to ponder issues she couldn't address?

But he saw it. It made the marrow in his bones ache, but he _saw_ it. And, in seeing it, could address it.

"What do you need from me?" he asked softly, running fingers lightly along her jaw to end by teasing her lower lip from between her teeth. "Whatever it is, just tell me."

She exhaled sharply, then let her forehead droop against his chest. It was the same dull thump, the same sound of finality, of a boxer hitting the mats for the last time. "Just take me upstairs."

It was the best she could do. It also the only way she could find to tell him that she couldn't _make_ any more decisions today, to admit she'd hit her limit and hit it unexpectedly. So the ball was in his court and she was willing to simply trust someone else to make decisions and choices. She trusted him.

All he could think was that he wanted to hold her close, shelter her until her equilibrium reestablished—the thought that this might be the one time she didn't bounce back was too horrible to contemplate. He'd known the war would wear on her—it wore on them all—but he hadn't realized just how threadbare she'd been worn already.

And it seemed, to him, a glaring and unforgivable oversight. After all, wasn't that the galaxy's refrain? 'Captain Shepard will save us. She'll defeat the Reapers.'

"Come on." He stepped back, letting her go only to catch at her wrist, towing her to the doors of the lounge.

He could only think of one thing he could do and it would result in one of two conversations.

One started 'you bastard.'

The other started 'I love you.'


	432. Forward

Shepard was not asleep, although she felt halfway there. She was certain Alenko wasn't asleep, either. He was just a little too still. "Your shirt's soaked," she noted with a heavy sigh. It was an over-exaggeration, but she felt it not exactly unwarranted. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried like she _meant_ it.

"I've got a spare," he answered philosophically, his voice resonating beneath her brow.

Apparently 'take me upstairs' turned out to mean 'let me cry all over you.' She wouldn't say she felt better, but she did feel comforted, more stable. Stable enough to be disgusted with herself.

And exhausted. That might have accounted for why she didn't feel the intense, overwhelming embarrassment she expected from such a ridiculous and out of character loss of control. Or maybe it was just proof of Alenko's point: if there was anyone she didn't have to be Captain Reaper-Killing Shepard around it was him. It was different with Garrus.

Which brought her to another point of difficulty, which was Alenko himself.

She loved him.

She trusted him.

So why did she feel so hung-up? Was she trying to protect one or the other of them—or both—from loss? Because that didn't quite seem logical.

Shepard shifted onto her other side, and Alenko loosed his hold on her enough to allow her to do so. It took more cogitation, but she finally arrived at the heart of her issue where they were concerned. "I don't know what to do with an 'us.'"

When most teenagers were trying to figure out relationships, when most were investigating the idea of having or being boyfriends or girlfriends, she'd been planning to go into the military so she could fight the kind of scum that deprived her of family, friends, everyone she knew and cared about…or might come to care about, since she'd planned to stay on the farm.

When most people began to look for companionship she'd been burying (so to speak) her best friend and devoting herself to the only life she had left—a life empty but for service. It had been safer that way.

And then there'd been Alenko. A little awkward, pleasantly geeky…and he'd gotten through to her. Once upon a time they'd planned for a future together. Now though…she tried to imagine 'future' and came up with a blank. And now that they were close enough together…

"That's because you're thinking too hard about it," Alenko answered simply, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck.

Shepard shivered convulsively.

"We're quite a pair. I can't keep my foot out of my mouth and you can't stop thinking things over."

Shepard gave a wry chuckle. "That's…not an unfair assessment. So what am I over-thinking?"

Alenko tightened his grip on her, pulling her more snugly against him. "I'm in the unique position of being able to tell you it's better to miss what you lost rather than regret what you never had based on personal experience," he answered somberly. "I had too many times of asking myself 'why weren't there more moments like this?' or 'why didn't we make the opportunity?'"

Her own words to EDI came back to her now: _no one ever fell in love without big a little bit brave._

"I just don't want to prod you into anything you're not ready for." And his tone suggested his own concern that her hang-ups were based on his actions—or lack thereof.

Shepard rolled back over, studying his face. "We're quite a pair, aren't we?" With another sigh, she scooted closer, wrapping one arm around him and catching her heel in the back of his knee.

"Kinda looks that way. Still—not like we don't have reasons enough."

Shepard swallowed hard, felt herself tensing up the way she did when she knew a fight was coming, when she knew she needed to be unstoppable. She closed her fist around a handful of his shirt. "Come see me tonight…please?" It had taken so much effort to get the words out that she nearly and out of reflex tried to take them back. But she clenched her teeth. The worst he could do was say 'no'…no, the worst would be the assumption that this was just a physical thing…or, even worse…he'd assume something of that nature when _she_ was serious…

…the great Captain Reaper-Killing Shepard indeed, she thought snidely. She could charge an enemy fortification, take on Reapers or Cerberus with little regard for the danger and _this_ was where she had fear issues? Pathetic.

"I'd like that."

She had to clamp down on the blankly-asked question '…really?'

Was this what Alenko felt like back when he'd been more awkward? She could only bless her lucky stars that the emergency brake on her mouth was less defective.

"I might like it a little more, though, if you didn't sound like you were facing a firing squad. Just saying."

Shepard laughed at that, a short bark of sound that elicited a sort of nervous chuckle in succession. She untucked herself from under his chin to be confronted by a smirk that kept the wry smile on her face. There were more lines around his eyes, she noticed, and a faint touch of silver in his dark hair.

Somehow, it was seeing those tiny traces of age that forced her to confront the idea that if Alenko died tomorrow…she would regret not taking every chance she could to tell him—and show him—that she loved him. She would regret letting her own fears, insecurities and hang-ups get in the way. She would mourn what wasn't instead of fondly remembering what was.

And that struck her as bleak beyond bearing.

So she gave him the three words she had so much trouble with, that had such fear and worry attached to them: "I love you, Kaidan." And, scraping together what courage she had left, gave him a brief peck on the lips before whispering against them, "Come see me tonight?"


	433. Yes and No

Author's Note: Just a brief little thing—they have arrived at the Citadel and Samara has already slipped off. There wasn't a good place in-chapter to mention either of these little points.

-J-

Shepard didn't notice the door hiss and admit Alenko. She did notice when he appeared in her peripheral vision and set a plate of still-steaming dinner on her desk before teasing the datapad away. "Guess who forgot dinner again."

"I was gonna eat later," Shepard sighed. Now that it was here, though…

"Yeah. At breakfast," Alenko answered sardonically. "Come on, you're gonna hurt Palmer's feelings. I think she sneaked you a little extra dessert."

What was she supposed to say to that?

"And so you don't have to eat alone…" He set a plate down on her other side.

"That makes things less awkward," Shepard declared, an uneasy knot starting to form in her stomach.

"You look like you're facing a firing squad again," Alenko noted, lightly resting a hand on her shoulder.

"Sorry. I just…" she waved vaguely, not entirely certain what she was waving at. She pushed herself to her feet. "There's a table by the couch."

-J-

Revelation struck Alenko in a blinding flash as Shepard looked at her now-empty plate with a sort of blankness, as if she didn't quite know what to do with it. He'd frowned at after action reports that way.

She'd eaten mechanically, as she might eat a ration bar—just sort of chewing and swallowing without regard for flavor while she planned the next step. It was watching her looking like she was planning a stage in a campaign that enlightened him.

He'd taken the wrong track for letting her dictate the pace of their relationship. It was what she needed, to be able to move at her own speed, to consider what _she_ wanted or didn't want. But each time she left the matter alone, she had to face it from the beginning when it came back around.

She had never been truly comfortable initiating anything more than 'simply friendly' and, by now, the pressure of possible death pushing her to make sure she died without regret had become so commonplace she no longer felt it as such. He'd forgotten her 'thing' about people close to her getting hurt. And that never went away on its own or without help…and she hadn't had that.

As it was, trying to figure out what they were and what they had had ended up being one more thing she had to organize, plan, carry out. And she was running out of those kinds of resources.

"Jalissa…"

She looked up at him, calm and direct. "It's okay. I know I'm not very good company just now." She tried to smile but it was a forced thing.

She thought he was trying to leave. That alone resolved him to—and in very short order—figure out _something_ that didn't end up hurting her again, or leaving her with the impression that leaving was what he was best at.

It came to him in a blinding flash. "You're fine," he answered. "You're a workaholic."

"Yeah. Something like that."

"I have an idea."

Shepard chuckled at his somewhat overenthusiastic, encouraging tone.

"Let's play a game."

Shepard's smirk went to incredulity. "…a game? What kind of game?"

"Turn around," he prodded her to sit with her back to him. When she did, he scooted a little closer without crowding her, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Let's play 'yes and no.'"

"Is that like 'red light, green light?'" she asked dryly.

"A little, maybe." He leaned forward a little more. "I'm going to do something…and you say 'yes' or 'no.'"

Shepard tilted her head, trying to peer at him over her shoulder.

He wanted to tell her to trust him, but knew better. Trust, at this point, was like feeling her way across a frozen lake: she had to test each step to make sure it didn't give out on her, rather than simply sprint to the other shore. It didn't matter how many times she told herself they were fine…it would take time for the back-of-her-mind doubts—the kind that only healed by repeated proof that they were unnecessary—to fade completely. "Is that okay?"

"…yes."

Alenko shifted so he sat close behind her, felt her stiffen then force herself to relax. When he tugged her far enough back for her to rest against his chest, he leaned over her ear. "Is this okay?"

"…yes." She didn't sound quite as uncertain this time, despite the preceding pause.

He slid one arm around her middle and reached the other to take her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. Then he held very, very still.

"Yes." Her fingers tightened around his, her posture loosening a few more degree.

He planted a gentle kiss high on her neck, right over the sweet spot he remembered. Her breath hitched and her free hand came to rest on his knee, squeezing slightly.

"Yes. Are you going to let me turn around?" she asked softly.

"Do you want to?"

"Yes."

He scooted back and she turned. She remained kneeling on the cushions for a moment, then Alenko scooted back so he sat in the elbow of the couch, back against the backrest, legs comfortably stretched out and held out a hand to Shepard, who promptly climbed into his lap.

She gently rested her hands on his shoulders, fingers tracing out muscle groups, her expression far less tense, content to let him steer…and comforted by the option of 'yes' or 'no.'

Alenko simply sat where he was, hands resting at the flare of her hips while her nimble fingers continued tracing his frame. Her expression was one of easement, the nervousness gone from her face, the tension gone from her shoulders, the look of facing a battle wholly erased as the blood in her veins began to warm.

Shepard suddenly leaned forward, one hand on his chest—over his heart—for balance and pressed her lips gently against his.

Alenko tilted his head, his grip on her hips tightening.

"Is this okay?" Her arms twined around his neck as she scooted closer.

"Yes."


	434. Alive

Jalissa Aileen Shepard lived, and it was truly a miracle.

Her flesh wasn't clammy-cold with a crypt's chill in it; rather, it was warm with life, the skin smooth, healthy, and _touchable_. Nor did the smell of grave rot linger close to it. Instead, the faint smell of soap, unscented antiperspirant, and clean sweat lingered.

Her breath was warm, and just what it should be at the end of the day; it didn't carry the stink of flesh decaying in darkness, or of corroding teeth and gums.

No straying finger, helping to hold her so tightly, clutching her as if she was utterly precious, suddenly sunk through compromised flesh into desiccated veins, or snapped bones fragile from undisturbed slumber. She was no relic stolen from some charnel house.

Nor did the smell of burnt hair linger, nor the texture of blisters from the heat of reentry, no spots of melted armor fused to damaged flesh. Nothing of that brief, terrifying period of agony remained except the memories. No blemish, no mark, no proof that she had died like a comet in Alchera's atmosphere.

Blood thrummed in her veins, pushed by a determined heartbeat that did not mirror any rhythm around her, but kept its own time. Independent. She could tell, because she could feel Alenko's heartbeat, and it did not keep pace with hers, nor did it run in some kind of carefully constructed counterpoint, nor yet did she find, to her horror, that only one heart really worked or that her beating heart governed the rhythm of his—making all this a kind of hyper-realistic, heart-breaking daydream.

Lungs expanded and contracted, pushing air in and out of a body whose exertions required more oxygen than usual. Dead things didn't need to breathe.

She wasn't dead, and the thought crashed in her mind to drown out most others:

 _ **SHE WAS NOT DEAD**_ _._

Which could only mean she was _alive_. Alive, and _real_. Not a corpse-thing going through the motions of life. Not a dead thing who would eventually show the ravages as decay set in. She was real, and she lived, and she wasn't going to suddenly start rotting in front of her mirror one morning, or spitting out her teeth as decayed gums could no longer hold them. Nor would fingernails suddenly start pulling out of their beds, as bright eyes occluded to milky whiteness.

No fetid reek hung in the air around her, the elusive whiff she thought she caught every so often clearly a figment of her own tortured imagination. Instead, she found herself being kissed as if Alenko might never have another chance, and as if he intended not to waste even one.

Her teeth were all anchored firmly. Her tongue retained its proper flexibility. There was no strange, slow, ominous stiffening in any of her joints, just hinge or ball-in-socket assemblies performing exactly as required.

Nor did her hair suddenly start coming out in clumps from a decayed scalp.

It was only now that she really understood the source of her hot-and-cold attempts to rebuild what had been lost. She'd been afraid of something she hadn't admitted fear of. That she was really dead, a non-corroded husk going through motions of life without the substance of it. Too many nightmares, pushed back into dark corners, laughable and ridiculous during the day but somehow all too real, all too deeply rooted.

She hadn't wanted to find herself, finally and for-real, in the arms of the man she loves…only to rot away right there in her full disgusting glory. A thing that was dead, and had fooled everyone until she couldn't anymore.

But no maggots nibbled her flesh. Flies didn't last long on spaceships. Nothing unclean or foul chose that moment to crawl out of her mouth or eyes or nose. She was alive. There was nothing for such things, here.

Her eyes stung with relief. She was alive. She was clean, and whole, and real. There were no strange pains in her joints, her vision was perfectly clear—the whole world was washed in the light of the fishtanks or Alenko's own gentle biotic corona.

She found herself smiling for what felt like the first time in a long time. He might still love her if she was a reanimated dead thing…but she couldn't imagine being _wanted_ if she was in that state. And it was so good to be wanted.

Part of her wondered how often she would have to return to the conclusion that she was alive, that she wasn't going to disintegrate into a pile of grave mold at the least opportune moment. Part of her didn't care: it was such a wondrous relief to believe, rather than simply know, that she was _alive._ That she wasn't just a copy of a living woman, some kind of superb facsimile that lacked something intrinsic to make her real.

She was real, just like she was alive. Because she was both. And she finally _believed_ it. All those nightmares she never admitted to were merely wraiths in the darkness, insubstantial, unable to do anything more than creep her out on a dark night. They weren't real because she _was_ …and they slunk away from such a bright outlook.

How long had it been since she felt the comfort of a bright outlook? Even without thinking, she knew it had been a long time.

Fear she refused to dignify with acknowledgement withered before such belief, retreating to allow her to enjoy without distraction rippling muscle, acres of olivine skin, and the sense that for a few minutes…everything was as it should be. There was definitely something to be said for being back together.

There were fears of what being back together might mean, but she pushed them aside. She wouldn't let fear spoil this for either of them. Fear of the 'what ifs' the future might hold was tomorrow's problem. Or maybe even the day after tomorrow's. Tonight for was for the living, and those who loved.


	435. Slip Away

Shepard began to wake up by degrees, but she'd really rather have stayed asleep. Things had proceeded quite easily, quite comfortably, once Alenko nudged the door open—so to speak. It had bothered Shepard, when she had brainpower to devote to the matter, that it ended up being so hard to start something.

She thought she'd isolated the problem but damn if she knew what to do with or about it. Intimacy meant vulnerability; for her it didn't work any other way. She'd almost forgotten that she'd had problems like this last time—but she'd also had Ilos, and grief, and while she'd never subscribed to the 'I don't want to die a virgin!' mentality, she had wanted Alenko to know she cared. It was selfish, especially seeing that he'd ended up having to live with the memory that she'd cared.

If people around her ended up getting hurt…that had been a perfect example, even if she was the one who ended up dead.

Moreover, at this point she'd felt she couldn't afford any kind of vulnerability. She was already beginning to crack at the seams; why else would she have ended up so worked up? Her fears orbited around the idea that if she set aside her 'Reaper-killing Captain Unstoppable' armor for even a few minutes she'd never have the strength to put it back on.

That, apparently, was not the case. In fact, it seemed to her to be more in line with a standard demonstration of 'fear feeds on fear.' Her thing had been that she'd ignored the fears for what they were, mothballing that segment of the problem so she could deal more handily with whatever was left.

It bothered her, the various issues rolling and compounding into a massive ball of undealt-with issues.

Once again, she'd convinced herself that she was making bad decisions; she was too much trouble, had more baggage than was fair for someone else to have to deal with. That line of thought held up no better this time than it had on the SR-1. Repeated evidence indicated Alenko had no intention of being run off by her 'issues.'

That she didn't find herself appending 'yet' did her chafed soul some good.

She had to remind herself that she'd become aware, as she'd begun to grow fond of Alenko, that her interactions had always fallen into one of three groups: 'friends,' 'enemies' and 'neutral parties.' She'd never needed a fourth category until Alenko _became_ a fourth category. She'd let herself forget, since it wasn't important during the Collector hunt, that she had trouble interacting in a way so many people took for granted.

She rarely felt certain when a friendly touch crossed the line into true PDA…and worried.

She rarely felt certain about when it was alright to kiss him…and worried about that, too.

She wanted to groan and shove her head under her pillow, grateful one of them had some sense. If it weren't for Alenko being able to get things started…

She was fine once things got started, once certainty of a kind asserted itself—she was _fine_. It bothered her that initiating anything more than friendliness was hard for her.

She'd mentioned it, apparently having done something to prompt a question. To her surprise, the answer was something of a relief: 'You just need practice. _We_ just need practice.'

She hadn't had to think much after that, but she'd appreciated the 'teamwork, that's what counts' nuance to the remark. Things didn't seem quite so daunting if one had a team to work with. And wasn't that, essentially, what a committed (she used the word hesitantly, that horrible uncertainty nibbling at her) relationship was? A team?

A strange sensation of someone else's foot rubbing gently against hers told her Alenko was not only up, but was trying to wake her up gently. She'd warned him, sometime before dropping off to sleep, that she was prone to thrash about if startled awake.

"Mph."

Fingers began to play delicately across her skin.

Well…she'd asked for a gentle wakeup call…but surely it could only have been a few hours…

"Jalissa."

"Huh?" she asked wearily. It had been a late night, true enough. Just before falling asleep, her brain had felt sludge-like in her skull and it had been better than a hot soak after a cold, hard day to just curl up close to him. To just _be_ close to him.

"I need to go," he said softly, kissing her bare shoulder.

 _That_ was not something she wanted to hear. She rolled over, catching her heel in the back of his knee and pressing her face against his chest. "Five more minutes?" she entreated, voice gravelly.

A kiss fell a top her head. "It was five more minutes," Alenko chuckled softly. "Half an hour ago."

"Oh…" she inched back far enough to see his expression, wry humor on every dimly-lit feature.

Now it was awkward again. She pushed herself away and got up, trying to find something sensible to do to gloss over the moment.

She supposed the sensible thing would be to take a shower—and she thanked every force for good in the world there were _no_ krogan on this boat. Them and their stupidly sensitive noses.

She tensed as Alenko wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her back against him. "Sorry," she said a little stiffly, "I don't…"

"It's okay." A kiss was deposited on her shoulder. "I love you." A kiss at the juncture of shoulder and neck. "And I believe in _us_." A kiss on her neck. "And before I kill you with morning mouth, I'm gone."

Shepard couldn't stop the involuntary giggle and squirmed, although Alenko didn't release her immediately.

"But I _will_ be back."

It was reassuring to hear. "I love you." The words were still hard to say, but she didn't choke on them, didn't feel choked by them.

A kiss to her temple, and Alenko released her, hastily dressing before slipping away.


	436. Interruptions

Alenko hadn't liked slipping away from the Loft in the middle of the night to rejoin the others in the crew quarters. However, it would be awkward, possibly troublous, if it got out that he was sleeping with the commanding officer.

Fortunately, Spectres had private residences on the Citadel. Even Shepard, although she hadn't had time or inclination to make use of hers. Fortunately, his apartment was perfectly lived-in, which was why, before disembarking the _Normandy_ , he'd suggested that she should take some shore leave. They could watch something on TV and just hang around. Order out for dinner or something.

Just spending time together was important, too. But he'd been glad when Shepard, a little nervously, pointed out that it was _really_ too late for her to head back to the _Normandy_. She might fall asleep in the CRT vehicle, and then what?

Which was why she was here, now. And if she was going to be a regular fixture in his apartment, he needed to get one of those bed-toppers that enabled Party A to get out to pee without waking Party B up—because Shepard, who he knew was usually a light sleeper, was now _extremely_ sensitive to anything moving around at all while she tried to sleep.

Fortunately, she didn't seem to really _wake up_ …it was like getting a VI set to activate if triggered. She'd asked blearily ' _are you alright_?' the first time he got up, then seemed to go back to sleep upon being assured that he was. Then, when climbing back into bed, she wakened more fully. ' _Kaidan_?' There had been a shake or tremor in her tone, as if she hadn't been totally sure where she was—and that this uncertainty touched a deeper fear.

' _It's just me. I didn't mean to wake you up. Are you okay?_ '

' _I'm a light sleeper. I was just a little disoriented in the dark.'_

Understandable. Even on their dimmest setting, the fish tanks in her quarters gave off a little light. If she were to wake suddenly in the night, there would be enough ambient light for her to immediately ascertain where she was and whether there was anyone there who shouldn't be.

"I love you." It was all he could think of to say, but apparently it was the right thing.

Her return 'I love you, too' was a little slurred as her eyelids dragged themselves down. But the sentiment was echoed more clearly in the way she curled up against him. Content.

If she was a light sleeper, at the very least she went back to sleep quickly enough.

Alenko was about to drop off again himself when Shepard suddenly twitched, a sharp, jerking motion against the usual somnolence of sleep. Her breathing hitched in a single, painful, guttural gasp, and continued with a labored quality.

Alenko's blood went cold in his veins. There was something unpleasant in the panting sounds, as if part of her brain screamed she wasn't getting enough oxygen. Her skin grew chill and clammy in response to fear.

…she'd suffocated in space. Or burnt up in atmosphere. She hadn't been sure which of them killed her…

"Jalissa?" he asked firmly, loudly. "Jalissa."

He knew enough not to shake her. She'd warned him the night before not to shake her awake if he needed her—she didn't say why, but he suspected it had to do with being an N7. Looking at her now, maybe it had to do with the nightmares: because this was one hell of a nightmare, and he felt sure if he shook her awake, she might just wake up with a disabling chop or something equally painful, without realizing who he was or where he was.

"Jalissa." It took effort to wake her gently.

When she did wake, she instinctively pushed away from him.

He expected as much, had his omnitool off his nightstand and turned on. The golden glow gave the room—and those in it—a clear golden light.

Shepard, strangely, looked more puzzled and disoriented than anything else. She seemed to read the situation his face, for she winced. "Nightmares?" she asked uneasily.

"Yeah. Like you couldn't breathe."

Shepard hunched forward, running a hand through her hair. "I tend not to remember that one, once I wake up from it," she said, regarding the bed in front of her.

"You're still shaking. Come here."

She held up a hand to test its steadiness. "Yeah, a little." She didn't seem surprised, and it cut him that nightmares were apparently common enough that she'd 'gotten used to them.'

He reached for her, and was gratified when she let him pull her towards him…though a little less so when she began rubbing his back as if _he'd_ been the one sleeping badly. "How often?"

Shepard shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't keep count."

The simple answer left Alenko wanting to _do_ something…and knowing he couldn't really do anything at all. This was a trauma-dream. It was doubtful anything but time—and probably not even that—would help.

"Fortunately, they tend to only happen once in a night."

True Jalissa Shepard philosophy: dig 'til you hit daylight. But even that gave volume to the lump in his throat.

"I shouldn't have let you go."

Shepard's smile was sad and gentle, as was the kiss she placed tenderly on his cheek. "Then you would have died, too. I don't…" she swallowed hard, pursing her lips, then swallowed again. "I'd rather look forward than back. And we're both here."

He leaned over to kiss her cheek…or meant to.

Impish, perhaps hoping to derail the somber mood settling, Shepard turned at the last minute so he got her mouth instead. "Oops," she mumbled against his lips.

He had a brief glimpse of her grin before she reached over and shut down his omnitool's display. More than that, he had to laugh, if only because she seemed to be in a mood to press her advantage.

"How awake are you, Kaidan?"


	437. Own It

Tali sat in her seat as Xen, Raan, and Gerrel filed out of the Admiralty Board's meeting room. Xen looked joyous, enthusiastic, ready to begin. Gerrel swaggered out, every inch the man who wanted a fight and had finally gotten one.

Raan…well. Tali had never been quite as disappointed with Raan—though she was more disappointed with herself. Raan had agreed to provide provisional support… _if_ the motion passed…and then looked at the table for the rest of the vote.

Tali's stomach filled with something cold, until she wondered if throwing up might ease the sensation of something leaden pooling there.

The word was 'war.' And because she hadn't said 'no!' the situation was 'full steam ahead.' Even now, it didn't feel like the right thing to have done. She'd agreed, but only after arguing for as long as she could. It had taken hours, with Korris mounting his own arguments and counter arguments, but in the end, Xen and Gerrel were for war. Raan was for it if the majority was. Korris was, of course, against it.

Then they had all looked at her. She felt sick. She had been taught that the Admiralty Board, whatever their personal disputes, needed to present a united front. Her vote, the one that would either create a perfect tie, which would have forced Raan to actually pick a side…and she had caved to that old learning. The Admiralty Board _had_ to present a united front.

Korris gave her a reproachful look that almost squeezed the tears out of her. For a wild moment, Tali almost got up, flung herself at the door and shouted into the corridor 'wait! I changed my mind!'

But she couldn't do it. Part of her felt too stunned. Part of her felt guilty, and that was the harder part to bear.

"Tali," Korris began, then broke off, shaking his head.

"I know," Tali said, glad her voice didn't shake. But if she had to defend herself on this matter, she really was going to cry.

She'd tried so hard to argue alternatives to war. The geth knew Shepard, respected her. Maybe an ambassador—

But Xen and Gerrel shot this down. They didn't need outsiders to help fix their problems. More than that, you couldn't reason with a machine. It was unseemly—almost treacherous, Xen pointed out—for a quarian to seem more invested in the geth than her own people.

That had taken the wind out of Tali's sails, not the least because indignation choked her. As if Xen had any right to say such things to her after that-that-that farce of a trial!

It had taken more time than she would have liked to swallow down the anger. Maybe if she'd gotten past it sooner, she wouldn't have felt so worn-out by the time the vote came up. But she'd argued valiantly against the plans to arm the liveships. Argued against involving the Civilian Fleet at all—surely something this momentous couldn't be left to five voices when it affected so many people, all of whom lived on _spacecraft_!

But there had been argument upon argument until Tali wondered if maybe shooting Han'Gerrel might not be more of a favor to the Fleet than leaving him at his post. She suspected Shepard or Garrus, for instance, might just punch his ass out and declare him unfit for duty, if they heard him ranting the way she'd had to endure.

Which made her feel worse for having toed the 'stick together' line.

"Why?" Korris demanded, leaning on the table, looking pale and shaken. "Why didn't you stick to your guns?"

Tali felt her lip tremble. "The Admiralty Board has to present a united front for the sake of the Fleet…" she faltered, despising the wobble in her tone.

"Rubbish! That's Rael talking, and you know he was usually part of the majority!" Korris snapped.

Two fat tears welled up in Tali's eyes, despite her attempt to blink them back. She swallowed hard, but was forced to wipe the saline off her cheeks.

Korris grimaced. "Spineless," he snarled, turned on his heel, then walked out of the room. "Is that how your friend Shepard taught you how to stand up for your principles?" He didn't wait for her to answer, but let the parting shot linger.

All alone, Tali burst into tears, putting her head down on her arms. Shepard was the product of a different system of governance. She'd worked within Tali's system during that trial, but had made no bones that she felt the Admiralty Board ought to be replaced as often as any other leadership: like a diaper, and often for the same reasons.

But Shepard was _accustomed_ to standing against public sentiment. She, Tali, was not. The quarians were a tight-knit community, after all. Consensus was important.

But the upswing in her sobs told her she wasn't fooling anyone, not even herself. She had caved under pressure because she'd been afraid. Afraid of consequences. Afraid of choosing wrong. Afraid of being the dissenter.

Afraid of being a target of her own people. Again.

Bitterness welled up in her heart, but the tears stopped. If nothing else, she had to own her decision as if she agreed with it. That meant not crying about it like a ninny. She sniffled, then wiped her eyes on the drape of rank an Admiral wore.

Not for the first time, she felt like a little girl pretending she could fill her father's position.

Not for the first time, she knew she wasn't really up to doing it. This just went to show.

Tali stood up, taking several deep breaths until they no longer shook. If nothing else, she had to own this decision. She'd made it. She hadn't been willing to stand up for what she _really_ thought. It would have been better, she told herself, if she'd voted with Korris and _forced_ Raan to commit.

But she hadn't. And now, all she could do was own her vote.


	438. To the Rescue

Shepard's omnitool pinged, causing Councilor Burns to stop mid-sentence. It wasn't the usual ping, either, but the ping indicating something had come up that needed her attention immediately. "I think that's trouble knocking," Shepard declared lightly, getting up from her place and setting her napkin on the table. "Excuse me, Councilor."

"Of course." But she could tell, from the way his expression crumpled, he really did wish she wouldn't be so formal. Shepard made a note to try harder as Alenko tried to keep the conversation moving. Still, she could feel both men watching her to see if the matter was serious…or to see if they could decide what degree of seriousness before she reported on it.

"What's up, EDI?" Shepard asked, once she'd withdrawn to a corner of the restaurant. Burns had been serious about his 'once a week dinner meeting' plan. Today, though, dinner had been a casual thing, with very little business substance.

"Shepard, I am sorry to interrupt your meeting with Councilor Burns, but an item of has arisen. Specialist Traynor and I felt that it warranted the interruption, possibly being time-sensitive," EDI announced briskly.

"Okay, what's up?" Shepard asked, catching Alenko's eye and mouthing 'trouble ahead.'

He nodded and began making their excuses to Burns, flagging down a waitress and, probably, requesting carry boxes. Bless Burns for picking a place that wasn't too high-class for carryout!

" _Specialist Traynor has been intercepting certain communiques which hint at a group of former Cerberus scientists. They appear to have defected, and are being hunted as a result. She suspects they might be willing to join any entity that could offer them sufficient protection_."

"Cerberus defectors?" That was a double-edged sword. They _could_ be really trying to get out…or it could be bait for anyone altruistic enough to get involved. Shepard's heart squeezed painfully a few times.

" _Specialist Traynor and I have studied all transmissions against the possibility that this is simply a Cerberus ploy. We believe it is genuine._ "

"Is Traynor listening in on this conversation?"

" _I am, Captain,_ " Traynor spoke up.

"Opinion?" EDI was all about analysis, but Traynor had the gift of gut instinct. Between the two of them, Shepard was inclined to believe their take on a situation.

" _I think we should investigate,_ " Traynor said resolutely. " _For Cerberus to be dogging these people, they must represent a significant threat…or be a resource the Illusive Man_ _really_ _doesn't want anyone else to have. If it's a trap, better to spring it. If these people really need help getting out, well._ "

"I know how that is. You don't just hand in your resignation papers," Shepard finished.

" _I was also thinking that a significant brain trust devoted to…certain projects…might advance those projects. It might even be the reason the Illusive Man is so dedicated to killing these people. Just so you can't potentially make use of them,_ " Traynor pointed out.

"Alright. Put out the all-call: everyone back onto the boat. We're going to treat this like the rapid-response situation it might be," Shepard declared.

" _Notification released. Anyone within ten minutes of travel to report immediately to the Normandy. Anyone else to report to the Citadel's rally point to await further orders. Joker is already warming up the engines and obtaining departure clearances._ "

"Thank you both." Shepard disconnected the call, rejoining Alenko and Burns. "Sorry, Burns, but we just had something come up."

"Not at all," Burns answered, shaking her and Alenko's hands in turn. "I do understand." The fact that he didn't ask for details bespoke this understanding.

Shepard and Alenko strode out, called a CRT car, and climbed in.

"So what's up?" Alenko asked, after the CRT vehicle took off.

"Traynor and EDI think they found a bunch of Cerberus defectors. We're going to see if they are, and rescue them if we can," Shepard answered. "If it's a trap, better if someone who expects one springs it on purpose, rather than someone not expecting one springing it on accident."

Her words, although to the point and practical, containing not one ounce of accusation, made him think back to Horizon. "Have I apologized for being an ass that day?" he asked, taking one of her hands in his.

"I'm sure you have. I really thought you were on that Collector ship," Shepard answered without looking at him. "Imagine my relief that you weren't."

That was what she thought about every time Horizon came up these days. Not just his being an ass, not the anger it used to bring, or the hurt, but the sheer relief at not having to watch the Collectors make off with him. Of being spared the agony of wondering what might have been done while he was out of her reach.

She had never admitted to anyone that, for the first few weeks after destroying the Collector base, she had dreamed of finding him in one of those tubes, reduced to paste before she could intervene, or forced to put a bullet in his head because she _could_ intervene…but not to any real effect.

To her relief, he didn't apologize again. He simply squeezed her hand, his eyebrows knitting as if some of the old distress touched her features. Maybe it did.

"Traynor was there, too. Did you know that?" Alenko asked.

"It's come up, briefly," Shepard answered, glad of the slight change in subject. "Some of the colonists decided to stick it out but most of them decided to find a more stable colony. It's just isolated farmsteads, now."

"Can't say I blame them."

Shepard nodded. She understood the whys and why-nots of colonists staying with or leaving a devastated colony quite well. "I wish them the best." And she did. She hoped they were too small a target for the Reapers to concern themselves with, when there were so many more built-up, prey-rich megalopolises to harvest.

"So, we're going to ride to the rescue?"

"That's the plan." It mattered that his question gave these scientists the benefit of the doubt.


	439. Catch Up

It was the most welcome sound—apart from opposing-Cerberus gunfire—that Jacob Taylor ever heard: "This is Captain Shepard, Alliance Navy! Please identify yourself!"

For a moment, he could almost forget the pain of the gunshot and Marlene's anguished whimpers. "It's gonna be alright," he promised, patting her shoulder. Louder, he called, "Shepard? Dammit, is it a gift, just knowing when to ride to the rescue?"

"Jacob!" There was joy and surprise in her voice. He supposed there ought to be: it was good to know anyone from the old crew was okay. Not that he was surprised to find Shepard out in the galaxy shooting it—and Cerberus—up. That was almost a given. "Is that you?"

"No, it's Santa Claus!" he shot back with a shaky laugh—shakier than he would have liked.

"In that case I've got a bone to pick with you." Her voice drew closer, but he was sure her weapon was still levelled—just in case. "What's with putting me on that naughty list? Who wants Reapers for Christmas?"

"They have batteries and moving parts! What more do you want?"

He only answer was a grim laugh.

Shepard was halfway to the barricades—weapon half-raised, as expected—when Jacob heavily levered himself to his feet. "I've got wounded back here."

To his relief, he saw Garrus with her, the ever-present turian still…well, ever-present. With her was…

Jacob had to blink, wondering if pain had altered his vision but, no, it was _definitely_ the jackass from Horizon.

"I have a medic," she jerked her chin,

Jacob moved limped aside so the marine could kneel beside Marlene. He spoke soothingly and worked competently as Shepard moved to stand by Jacob's shoulder.

There were more providing a back row of security: an asari, a synthetic—he had the sneaking suspicion he knew why there was a synthetic on the team, though he couldn't say how—a green thing, and another beefy marine.

"—just needs a big old band-aid. I promise."

"Him again?" Jacob asked in an undertone, glancing at Alenko.

"Will you sit your ass down? You're bleeding all over the place," Shepard answered with a trace of a growl in her voice as she forced Jacob to sit.

Touchy subject, then. "We've got a doc on site, just wrap me up until we can get her to look into it." Dr. Curtis, as it happened, who would probably be overjoyed to see Shepard still in one piece.

"Yeah," Shepard nodded, "the bullet's still in there. Didn't nick anything, though, so you're good."

He was bleeding from a bullet wound. That didn't fall in line with his definition of 'good.' Still, it wasn't 'really bad' either. "What are you doing here, Shepard?" Jacob asked as she wrapped the wound.

"Rescuing your ass. I thought we covered that."

"Okay, probably should have let the obvious be obvious. Everyone…okay?"

Her expression tightened, an ugly look ghosting over her face. "Mordin's gone. Thane, too."

"Damn." It was sad about the doctor. Not had he taken as great a liking to the drell as Shepard, but he'd respected the man as a competent agent and a loyal teammate.

"Took a sword to the chest," she grit out.

"Who used _swords_?" Jacob demanded, startled.

"Bastard named Kai Leng. After the Reapers, he is firmly and squarely on top of my shit list."

So much the worse for him, Jacob thought. "Give him one for me—Krios was…a good guy."

Shepard gave a humorless laugh, but let it pass. She knew too well how Jacob felt about Krios, even if the sentiment had softened over time. "Miranda's okay, though—I've seen her."

"Of course she is," Jacob grinned. "She's _Miranda_. Alright, I gotta ask—is that EDI?"

"That's EDI," Shepard answered. "Long story."

"Uh-huh." It didn't surprise him that, since being freed from the AI shackles, EDI had gone about procuring a…body. A body, he realized, carrying a sword strapped to her back. "And Vakarian—no surprise. How you doing, Vakarian?"

Vakarian nodded once. "Hanging in there, Taylor."

"Scoot, let me take a look," Alenko declared, nudging Shepard gently out of the way to check the bandage she'd put on Jacob's leg. She looked like she wanted to protest, but let it go.

"There's no Shepard without Vakarian," she answered almost complacently. "Grunt's okay, too. Covered in Rachni guts before he got out, but he's fine. Back on the front lines and glad of it."

"Your little tank-baby's all grown up, then." Grunt may have followed him around after the Rite, but it had always been clear that Shepard was the true authority figure in the krogan's life.

Shepard chuckled at this. "I've even been called to deal with his misdemeanors. My life is complete."

"Oh, I _gotta_ hear that one."

"We're good, Shepard. Nothing fatal," Alenko announced.

"Heard about that shit on the Citadel," Jacob resumed as Shepard levered him to his feet, taking his unsteady weight as Alenko carefully helped Marlene to stand up, ready to carry her if he had to. "Is it just me, or has Cerberus gone batshit since we left?"

"Crazy is as crazy does," Shepard answered grimly.

Jacob had always been a little leery of Cerberus. By now, he felt fully justified in not trusting them further than he could spit.

"You hear they hit Grissom, or tried to?"

"I thought Reapers got Grissom," Jacob frowned.

Shepard shook her head slowly as Jacob took his own weight.

His string of profanities was half pain, half indignation as he tried to limp off on his own. Damn Cerberus. Why'd they have to go nuts _now_? Then again…maybe there was no better time than what seemed like the end of all things.

He cast around for his handheld commlink. With the cavalry here, getting his people out just got easier.

…except that the one person—excluding the Illusive Man and whoever killed Krios—Shepard didn't want to see was here. He'd have to warn her about Archer.


	440. Old Grudges

"Shepard, one other thing—I don't want you to be surprised by this one," Jacob called, his expression contorting with doubt and concern.

Shepard stopped, her eyebrows arching together. "What's up?"

"…Archer is here."

Alenko watched the color drain from Shepard's face, but she remained otherwise composed.

Garrus warbled something in the back of his throat. Although Alenko's translator did not pick it up, the turian's tight-mandibled scowl indicated he was on the same page as Shepard.

"Thanks for the heads-up—that's one surprise I'd rather avoid."

Garrus snorted.

"Hey. Don't shoot him." Jacob looked between Shepard and Garrus. It was less a warning and more an entreaty: they had enough problems without scrubbing 'Archer' off the floor.

"He's not worth the bullet," Shepard growled, her disturbed force-calm making Alenko wonder just how necessary that warning had been.

"Speak for yourself," Garrus retorted.

Whoever Archer was, he was obviously near the top of Shepard's and Garrus' shitlists.

"But hey, it's your house, your rules," Garrus said.

Then, when it seemed that Jacob really wanted to hear it from her, "Yeah, your house, Jacob."

Jacob, looking mildly relieved, gave a wry snort. "Last time you said that, my house was being taken over by insane mechs."

"Last time I said that, there were only three survivors: let's let the parallel stop there, hm?" Shepard returned, but the casualness of her tone was not mirrored in her eyes. It certainly was not in Garrus' posture.

It was not like Shepard to hold grudges—the Reapers did not count. So to see her fighting to keep one in line was strange.

"By all means. Good to see you again, Shepard."

Shepard cuffed Jacob on the shoulder. "Hang tough, get that wound looked at. We'll get out of this."

Alenko knew, as Shepard moved through the facility, that she was looking for this Archer fellow. Whether to avoid him or not, that was the real question. "So, some guy's on your list," Alenko said awkwardly.

"Son of a bitch," Garrus stated, making another one of those sounds that did not translate but which seemed to relieve his feelings a bit.

"Guy's a piece of work. Surprised to find him here, though. He and the Illusive Man are virtually the same cloth—" she cut off as they reached the top of the stairs. "You know what? _Don't_ let me shoot him."

"Don't look at me. _I_ really want to shoot him."

"Thought you said he wasn't worth the slug," Alenko noted to Shepard.

"He's not. But that's a philosophical point. I have trouble thinking rationally around this guy."

"All the more reason to do it. You need your thinking cap on," Garrus retorted.

"Commander Shepard," the man Alenko had pegged—given Shepard's disgusted look—as Archer called her.

Shepard slowed, but her shoulders pulled back and tensed, as though she was a predator readying for that fatal spring.

"Dr. Gavin Archer we…met…on Project Overlord," the man held out a hand.

Shepard, uncharacteristically, crossed her arms. "That's _one_ way of putting it."

"Guy was experimenting on his savant brother," Garrus rumbled softly to Alenko. "Wanted a VI-human hybrid thing. Unfortunately, it got out of his control. They called us— _Normandy's_ crew—in. Shepard put it right."

"Was the kid okay?" Alenko's stomach turned. It was bad enough for Cerberus to do their experiments on adults—from the way Shepard and Garrus spoke and acted, Alenko figured that the brother in question had been a kid. Kids…shouldn't have to deal with that kind of thing.

He knew it from experience.

"The kid, David, is the only reason Archer's breathing. Shepard wouldn't kill the guy in front of him."

That sounded like Shepard.

"Yes…" Archer shifted uncomfortably under Shepard's dagger-like glare. "Well…after you took David I tried putting all that behind me."

Shepard was clearly in no mood to be fair. "What do you want?" she demanded.

Archer teetered between continuing his spiel and cutting to the chase. "I don't suppose you have any news about him?"

"When did you start caring?" Shepard snarled, actually _snarled_.

Garrus put a hand on her shoulder. "No bullet holes. You promised Jacob."

She scowled at Archer, white-faced and tight lipped.

Alenko had, by this point, begun to worry. It was so unlike Shepard to be so bent out of shape over anything _and_ show it so clearly. It was not so odd to see Garrus' hackles up.

"I know you think I'm a monster. And you're right," Archer answered. "I own it: what I did was unforgivable. And in that state of being unforgivable, I have discovered how very precious his life and future are to me. I _owe_ him."

The confession did not soften Shepard in the slightest.

The silence stretched; Shepard's and Archer's gazes remained locked. Shepard's face remained grim and angry; Archer's colored with an increasing look of shock and horror. A bleak sort of desperation had just begun to settle across the scientist's features, the kind of clarity and resolution preceding great action.

"He's fine. We got him off Grissom before Cerberus could get to him."

Archer choked on his own breath, relief crashing in like a bucket of cold water to his face. "I—oh." He swallowed, momentarily groping for words. "Th-thank you, Commander."

"It's Captain," Shepard answered curtly. Then, as she walked through the doorway near which he stood. "Stay away from David, doctor."

"Why'd you 'fess up?" Garrus asked sulkily, giving Archer a nasty look. "Not knowing is the worst."

"Because he was gonna clock out early." Shepard pantomimed blowing her brains out. "I want him to _live_ with this." This said, something in Shepard's posture broke and, as it did, the rage and resentment came gushing out, leaving her tired and…sad.

Alenko reached out and hesitantly rested a hand on her shoulder. She swallowed hard and nodded her appreciation, but the way she tangled her fingers in his prevented him from withdrawing that comfort. A comfort he was glad to give her.


End file.
